poems about being a body
to my incorporeal self:
envisage the discordant mass of your failings,
once-firm resolve collapsing into panic of inevitable oblivion,
the terror-tinged beauty of becoming
and The Way woken by pain that smarts
i wander in homage to the assemblage of mirrors
i would ask that you bathe me in smoke
while we preserve witches’ jelly & wizards’ jam
in my winter dreambody
we both dip into the vernal pool
in my fertile fortress
i am wading through my fields of impenetrability
in the zone of my morning birth
i discover a sanctuary
it is time to blend in,
recede into the thicket,
take time to feel my bark,
reside within myself,
settle into bones
my squash blossom
in your tender elfen hands
lithe and strong like a slender bow
The Chyld Moon
i bandaged cracked soul with a bandeau
and each time the moon rises,
i cry for my inability to make this verisimilitude veritable
i have the following written in cuneiform for posterity.
i am leaving Flatland.
i am a woman with new flesh covered in estrogen grime.
i’m guarded by a two-headed hydra.
i carry multitudes within me: solids, algae, silts, particulate.
every movement made of tiny waves of unctuousness
in the grotto heart, my limestone center,
touch is everything.
i bathe and lift enchantment to another plane.
wellspring of joys. hidden caress of the subterranean lake.
concealed desire, now cracked, flows into the rich admixture.
alluvial manors, effluvial manners:
rare salts of love on my inner walls.
egg: it’s a passive, dormant state.
or perhaps a thing you grow out of, like my suffocating adolescence.
and yet, “oogenesis,” “ova,” “ovum,” “egg,”
these words mean something nascently powerful.
when i say “egg” i think of opal, abalone shell, or pearl.
precious but potent
something that glimmers in the moonlight,
something that radiates its own dawn
when i began to no longer fight myself,
i did not break my egg like ouroboros.
my eggs have always been inside me.
a dream clutch in my tummy
i carry my eggs, whether they are physical or not (they are not),
i have stopped caring if my barren flesh is host to a sick delusion
i may not carry real human female eggs capable of life,
but i still hold on to my spawn, and try to accept
the ovaries on top of my skin.