love lightly

iii.

leave

The growth halts
and it is like a roar amidst a thunderstorm:
the trickle of squished cherries,
the blush of my cheeks.

I am a hungry child
refusing a spoonful
of the nutritions
my body needs:

Time,
liberty,
forlornity
and artistry.

Heat clings to my skin
as I am barefoot,
crying within myself,
my face, dewy and kind,

the countenance of
eternal sculptures,
solid, unmoving,
heroic.

If it is here
it must mean
it is good for me.

If it is here
it must mean
it is at its place

like a lapdog waggling its tail,
like a bee collecting pollen,
like a bundle of seaweed,

washed ashore,
the sea cleansed
of all it does not need.

Perhaps I've given
and now it is time
for me to receive.

Perhaps the problem is
that I love before
I am loved,

that I fixate on a man
and lose my mind within
the constellations I've drawn
over his clean hands.

All because
I have never been fed;
all because I refuse
the nourishment I need,

my pickiness in the way,
a tall gate
I look through
and nothing else.

I shall turn away
and with a journal in hand
stride forward,
look at the trees,

breathe them in,
smile at the sun
and breathe in its warmth,
look at my sisters

and breathe in their love;
they are all I have
and all I have had
for a long time.

Time,
liberty,
forlornity
and artistry.

Those things shall be
my nourishment,
the oil to my hair,
the touch of love

to my body,
to my faith,
and to my bruised heart.

࿐