Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Day 10: Rooting Reflex

Day 10 of my 30 days of poetry...I'm 1/3 of the way there.

It's been a really, really hard two days.  I don't have words to put around it, and I don't want to...and I don't really feel like I have words to name it, either (and honestly, I don't really want to)...but here's day 10.

Rooting Reflex

It draws me under and holds me.
Siphons air from my lungs like
a straw in a Ziploc bag,
it ties weights to my legs
immobilizes my body
breaks me like glass
I shatter
into thousands of pieces.
I break over my own body
like Niagara Falls
like riptide
like earthquake opening below my feet
I fall in
to old habits like I lived there yesterday;
like an infant when you brush her cheek
my rooting reflex for love and approval
has never gone away-
it leaves me gasping
like searching for oxygen on the moon,
like if I only breathe in enough of what I'm offered
my lungs will expand
like if I only try hard enough
I can live
on what is given to me.

This is the only thing
that makes me forget to notice the shape of the moon.
The way she is tethered to my outstretched hands with beams of light
even on my hardest days
I have held on to moon shine
like it is the reins of my god's horses
but this:
it rips the reins from my fingers,
leaves me like a child with no security blanket
like a boat with no lighthouse
like a car with no steering:
I don't believe in god
until the moments I feel most forsaken--
when she rolls up the ladder of her moonbeams
and leaves me to navigate the Darkness

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