Nothing short of wild

a poem in July

Returning to body feels nothing short of wild. The oasis, again. The fragile infinite.  And this, though it goes without saying, is unfortunate—that home should come to feel so foreign. And this, though it is already known, is cause for celebration. The breaking of bread—crumbs fall onto clothes.

The body is personal, the body is public. 

But neither are true. Really, the body is sacred. It’s not even mine, it is me, and I am it, though we don’t really even know what that means. 

Anytime I walk out of my apartment, my body is seen. Ideas are formed, sometimes communicated. At worst—inhabited. 

I am constantly shedding their skin. 

The worst offenders I’ve known were the people who became the most familiar. They were the closest because they were the softest. They softly told me, in more ways than one, to be smaller, quieter, of muted color. If I did so, they would feel better. 

Everything starts small. But a compromise of self is no small thing. 

Returning to body feels nothing short of wild. The oasis, again. The fragile infinite. 

When people talk of body, we hear words like expansion. People compare the lines of their palms to the veins in a leaf. Green, and growing. Aging as movement, as unable to remain still.  

The worst offenders I’ve known were people I loved. My body, for them, was just another place to sculpt their ideas with. In a landscape unknown to them, they held tightly onto what they did know. Instead of acknowledging their fear, they made it my own. This was their gift. 

It is a burden to carry the fears of others. So, returning to body feels nothing short of wild. Much was burned there—here, and bent.

The oasis, again. The fragile infinite. 

Pores open and close like valves, sweat is fluid; small rivers—collarbones filled with lakes. This place is made like soil. It’s here we plant our ideas. Our everything.