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Gratefulness
(poem/directive)
a body is always a body individual or collective (whole or in many pieces) alive or, later, dead a body is aways vulnerable
a wound is always a wound singular and deep or many cuts, slowly, blood everywhere left untreated, unstaunched, denied a wound will always fester
the first wound happens within the violence of birth the expulsion from the illusion of safety from the idea that someone (else) will do all the labor
and some of us keep looking everywhere for placenta, for mothering for acceptance of our worst choices to be told we are so special to be named a favorite child
some of us learn to work we are given tools, lectures, practices we are given the blessing of knowing that work to nourish the collective is a sacred path for our lives
some are only taught to eat given the title to land that isn’t ours judged for the speck of dirt under our nails set to race against even our own kin for the neverending victory of more
some of us are black still nauseous from the boat’s hold still catching our breath from snapped ropes still oiling our calloused field hands and still wounded
some of us are white still synonymous with impossible purity still given no songs from the earth still taught to master nothing but superiority and still, wounded
some of us are red, yellow, brown still made to feel tertiary to the plot still dismissed for all we remember still claiming we are human, not terrorist and, still wounded
some of us are never surprised never apoplectic when the stench hits us what rots at the core is known, documented it is tangible, moral, American, spiritual it is the founding wound
gray only at the surface brittle black where the injury began a rainbow of bruising everywhere green mold making life in dying flesh but the pus, the pus bursts white
we are well past the age of turning inwards of seeing the open wounds on our souls of stepping into our shadows with truth light of seeing we were shaped, and can change of believing the wound is who we are
we know the smell of decay on breath we see the swollen cracking flesh of infection it is not rude to acknowledge the stink to wonder if it is viral, venom, survivable to look for the laceration(s)
things are not getting worse they are getting uncovered we must hold each other tight and continue to pull back the veil see: we, the body, we are the wounded place
we live on a resilient earth where change is the only constant in bodies whose only true whiteness is the blood cell that fights infection and the bone that holds the marrow
remove the shrapnel, clean the wound relinquish inflammation, let the chaos calm the body knows how to scab like lava stone eventually leaving the smooth marring scars of lessons learned:
denial will not disappear a wound
the wound is not the body
a body cannot be divided into multiple living entities (what us will go on breathing?)
the founder’s wound is the myth of supremacy
this is not the first wound, or the last
we are a species before we are a nation, and after
warriors, organizers, storytellers, dreamers – all of us are healers
the healing path is humility, laughter, truth, awareness and choice
a scab is a boundary on territory, between what is within and what is without, when the line has been breached
stop picking at the scab, it slows the healing
until we are dead, and even when we are exhausted and faithless, we fight for life
we are our only relevant hope we are our only possible medicine
a body is always a body wounded, festering, healing, healed we choose each day what body we will shape with the miraculous material we’re gifted let us, finally, attend to the wound let us, finally, name the violence let us, finally, break the cycle of supremacy let us, finally, choose ourselves whole let us, finally, love ourselves whole.
First published on January 7, 2021. Posted by kind permission of the poet.
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