Day 1: Undoing

Okay, y'all.  So, it's time.  For real.  I need to get my butt in gear and write actual words on an actual page.  So there will be 30 days of writing.  

For real.  I'm not even kidding a little bit.  You have my permission to kick me if I am not writing.  

Here is day one.  

Undoing

Some days I wear my body like broken glass.

Crumbled shatterings create

splintered mosaics inside this frame and I

thank god for the ways gravity

and bones hold my undoing together.

And some days

I wear my body like thunderstorm.

The oppressive weight of cloud hangs over my chest and rips

thunder through me -

there is danger

in the way I wear this rippling creation of a being.

I wear this body heavy the way

carrying a river is heavy:

it is beautiful

and deep as it silently

erodes its own

edges.

And some days --some days

I remember this body is not

a thing to be worn.

Not burden, not bruise,

not load to contend with.

This body is not

pieces glued together forming this

heart-full being of human.

See - a tree does not wear herself differently

because the wind has blown.

Does not shame herself when

lightning scars her skin,

when seasons leave her bare,

when insects bore her leaves  --

she lives her physical body without

shrinking.

Some day,

I will

live

this body.