She Who Is Never Not Broken
This is the story of cracks that itch and swell around the edges, they are a nighttime pestilence;
an insomnia riddled with undoing and redoing.
Beneath them glows something though, something that is always making stronger the healed cracks:
I have been whipped apart by the storm, a tough ride and I never do not know who can see
Is there swelling where strength should be? Has it broken my spine, savaged my mind, taken my spirit?
Has mourning got caught in my through the like a hex whose name is not to utter but to choke.
I am golden by the tree.
The tree that has shed its leaves like the red planet around me in a circle,
I have stitched myself back together, sure, but the journey toward endings is pregnant in beginnings,
but I never do not move toward them.
I can’t let the night hold me, swaddled, suspended, whole; I let the sleep come on hard:
dreams of war, of running, of hiding in a cellar with fresh wounds to be attended,
and know, I would never not have it be like this.