Music, poetry, exclamations

1. The Cycle

I have cried my body dry. Rung out each drop of mother’s water, feeding the roots of wisdom that will continue to bear children, small forms as we once were, who will endure this struggle for themselves, and cry tears into the well of life themselves too, feeding more small beings, replacing the grandmothers, who will be mistaken, again, as children.


This feeling
Most tender but not in pain
Not numb, or bruised
But deep
Strung with every fiber of my chest, neck
My forehead waits
I nuzzle the moments
I wait

This feeling
Like a womb
Missing and longing to belong
Yet safe
Wrapped in every right
Believing every instinct
Desire is the music
Filling every part of my space

I don’t hurt
I don’t bite or move
I only pray
And I can’t tell if you’re inside or out
But I hear you
And you guide me to squirm in my own knowing
Because it’s right and true
And it’s something of grace

This feeling
Something natural
And if it had a color, it would be red
And how is it that something can be both
Singular and bound
Suffocating and open
Alive and dead