My sign reads, “Closed for business.”
I will reopen after I fight this lineage curse.
If you saw me today, you’d see
transposed from paper to palm
dressed in unwritten ink
pressed down on a clean slate and
moving words from wrist to skinny branches.
I have been shutdown. In lockdown
hiding (protecting) creative fears
from a catastrophic letdown.
If you saw me at thirteen, you’d see
passive explosions falling from palm to
blue ink covering black letters.
Soot on a blackboard covering white chalk.
I have been snuffed
by the fingertips of my own fears,
Goals repeat themselves on papers stashed all over –
I am wanting and waiting
to release my fear.
I cut carefully along the lines
running parallel to my spine.
At night, I let the pieces mend
without any glue or tape.
When I wake, they fall a part
and lay to the sides
parallel to my vertebra –
child’s play –
those white ivory keys
I cannot touch.
Have I mentioned the wings
I tried to insert inside the space
At night, the incision closes around the blades on my back –
in the morning I wake and stand, let the weight sink in –
Wings tucked tight,
White and light.
Yes, wings can look proud and earned.
Only sometimes, the weight of the day is something that must
Wings. Held in my hands, you are the backbone, the backside of fear.
The longer I hold you, the more I feel
with my muscle
My voice repeats itself, becomes a shadow
(flying wings) on dry garden dirt,
dead kale capillaries and withered bean skins.
Muscle memory. Theirs too,
folds in for the long shadow of winter.
To be afraid of dying, or the leash of fear
(don’t be) is not trusting your sown seeds.
Spread them far.
Come in…open your hand.
I see wings
the backside of fear.