it is a softness. like a feather. like a nest. (his nest, forevermore.) a slow and sappy love song of ethereal days, sleepy eyes, milk-stained shirts, half-formed thoughts, sentences that trail.
i gave birth; i was given life.
(nothing, nothing, could prepare me for eyes that seek mine and sweet, dewy breath, him, drunk on milk, me, drunk on him.)
a softness: all at once (i contain multitudes), i am becoming acquainted with my body, since, and i recognize her, because. she is both softer and stronger, transformed from knitting cells, and again from birthing a soul, and still more from nourishing life.
(i am being transformed.)
how can i not stand in awe of this body, so capable, so unbelievable? how can i feel anything but gratitude for what she has given me (everything)? for what she gives him, every day?
remember: we have bodies. we are souls.
(my body, the only home he has ever known.)
(linea nigra. come and go. before and after. like the tail of a star. like a map of places we've been.)
as you transform, so does he. he contains your multitudes, every last one.
ReplyDelete