This piece was first published in Lot’s Wife Edition 5, 2021.
Content warning: discussion of chronic pain.
Acceptance a silt lining
born without easing
the tumultuous question:
My acceptance is not come from choosing,
but an acquiescence to choicelessness
I echo around my home like a layer of desert dust over flowers
odd and still because there is no breeze
we cannot let the air in
Sometimes I shut the windows of myself so as
not to let the shrieking out of me.
There is little bravery in this,
the bearing of the pain –
is it brave for a paintbrush to bear its bristles?
I am clogged, the pain of my body a resin, a residue
sticking me down
striking out items on the calendar
sticking in my throat
Quietly in my shallow pool, I dance
Clumsily, I am asking for a type of rain –
calling for a storm:
wash away the dust over the flowers
unsettle the silt from the bottom of me
I am in a body without comfort and yet I have settled into the too comfortable
Image credit: Eugene Chystiakov via Unsplash.