There is a thing
And, standing your ground, on two feet,
no matter the conditions.
My legs turned into trees,
made into lumber,
really. They didn’t (or, couldn’t)
work the way they used to.
I had to stop using them
that they aren’t everything.
They are legs.
I can stand with them, and I can stand
Which way would I like to stand?
Is the question.
There were stories buried in my hips, locked away
in my pelvis. When I was a girl and was afraid
of falling apart or being seen or being pulled down and broken up
My hips bore my babies, carried me through, surviving storms
When I did not know how to stand, my hips moved me.
When I could not walk, my legs carried me
for a long time. Until, it was too long
and too much.
Too much, or not enough-the titles to the stories
inside. If it’s too much, it must
If it’s not enough, it must
In the middle, in my pelvis, the truth
was always there-I am neither
too much, or
I am beloved.
Perhaps, mighty, and sometimes
very small. I can tower above
a mountain. I can drop like concrete to the
I can curl into a chrysallis, or explode,
like some brave, new beginning.
Every detail, or complication
is a river that runs through me,
flowing into this body,
this enormous, waving me.
And, I am water, but I am earth,
because I fill and feed the roots that spread out
underneath me. The ground
is there, or it isn’t, but I flow on.
I have walked when I could not stand,
I have stood when I could not walk.
I have fallen, I have risen, I have waited,
I have wanted.
I move like water.
I am water.
I am an ocean,