I give my self permission to be.
I have nothing better to do than to be my self.
My body is cartography of the longest walk
hills, rivers, mountains, canyons, plains, caverns, cisterns, aquifers
a constellation-filled net for lungs and a volcano for a heart
My feet are calloused by the moon’s sandpaper light
My hands are instruments of god’s ability to play human and guitars
My veins filled with rivers that begin and end in me
a mirror in the kaleidoscope of my tongue
I have carried enough pollen to make bees jealous
I have carried my ancestors, mud underneath my fingernails
and ingested grief and mourning to purify the sun
Where will I end? In you, in us, in the arms of the dirt
Where do I start? Everywhere.
[July 11, 2020]