As part of my healing from a traumatic birth & post-partum experience, I decided to write & record my thoughts. Below you’ll find the transcript – which was where I originally wrote my experience over several weeks. You’ll also find the link to the recorded version.
Category: Personal Writings and Essays
There are images everywhere. There are images of images. A tree. Her shadow. The nest in the tree. The colors of the bird song. See it outside. Then close your eyes. See it inside. Remember. Everything. The texture of the trunk. How, like shingles, does the bark hang? How many hand prints tall is the […]
A Sky of One Million
In the sky of a million shrieks In a time when confusion creaks I feel my heart retract While eyes bulging, yearn, react. Action left and right drone false The dance of being, not quite the waltz We hoped and sang about – Where does the power to be come out?
Memory // Dream
i am ready for the love of eyes gazing world swirling in pupils palms i see old loves folding into new with what reminds of full and happy hearts my own aches with readiness a third heart beat yet it is not present and so perhaps time whispers, “not yet.” “ok” I say. “What is […]
Hand to Cheek
the way the mountain holds the sun is the kind of love i dream
Soft Melting, Clocks Beating
I feel fine the thread of a silk worm eyelashes at infancy the prayer of grandmothers a sigh of grief the line of snow on glacial horizons sand in a southern breeze i feel fine tears so delicate – quartz crystals under early sun heartbreak squeezing […]
Veins Like Canyons
i discovered heart break yesterday. fingered veins like canyons realizing they’d been dry for years moistened momentarily by salty tears cascading in waterfalls, drenching soil. i’ve mistaken rivers and silken curves. i dreamed them alive for both of us.
Like in Loving
there is a pain in the art of healing when the two sides separated for so long in sharing find each other and seal shut.
I feel like I created a mirage and rented an apartment there to live
Our Parents Parents
love is not a battlefield it is a lance in your hand whose thrust is old wounds of your parents parents