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Days 104-120: This Is Getting Ridiculous…

Another month ends. Too much work to do? The end of the term? Allergies? Travel? Easter? Rites of Spring?

Each and every one of these things. Tomorrow begins a month anew. I’ll go back to pictures with a word or two when I feel so inclined. That seems much better, I find.

And since it’s the end of Poetry Month, let’s have one for the road:

untitled draft

It is no small thing to be one
with the water. I touch it,
soft waves lapping at my fingertips,
gentle kisses welcoming me
below its surface. I see
myself—greying hair,
wrinkling skin, small lumps
and curves and marks
riddling my flesh like so many
ripples from rocks skipped
across my skin-sea.
My lungs remember the rush
of too many waves until I
pushed myself up, gulping and
gasping the air above. My shoulders,
my hips remember floating,
buoyant and gazing
on perfect cloudless sky.

It is no small thing to be one
with the needle. I stroke it,
cool metal razor-thin under my skin,
tiny pricks that taste
me if I turn away. I seam
myself, and think this is
what it means to be
whole and holy,
to sanctify
this body and this soul
by keeping them together.

There is the tissue and
there is the scar,
the one a rough reminder of
the making of the other.

It is no small thing, then, to be the one
to split the logs,
to tie the ropes,
to fashion the sail. I seem
myself now—making ready to carry
you through your waters
smooth and rocky, calming you before
I take the first of many
stitches to close
where you’re exposed. Unflinching,
I thread a long needle and pierce
your flesh
your soul.

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