Writings From The Digging Deep, Facing Self Course January 2014

LET THE HEAD REMAIN

”The women in my course hail from around the world. Some may never have access to the kind of guidance/conversation provided in our courses, simply because it doesn’t exist yet in their communities, or is inaccessible. Alternatively, participants might never open up, too shy to become vulnerable while looking a friend eye to eye. The online space gives a certain level of comfort in the relative anonymity - the strangers are all in the journey together, but we don’t know much about each other’s background - and yet, a deep connection occurs, a sacred sharing. How special to parallel the stories of a woman in Tanzania with a woman in Georgia. Think about the kind of conversations that open up when a 40 year old white stay-at-home mom connects with a 25 year old lesbian Latina from the Bronx. These two may never enter a room together in person, by sheer virtue of geography and/or identity, and here they can exchange inner thoughts, see intimately inside the other’s experience.”

I recently wrote this while being interviewed by The Operating System magazine - and gently challenged about the why of online spaces. This round of Digging Deep, Facing Self was our most diverse in experiences, identity and location - spanning New York to Alabama, California to Maryland, Australia to Tanzania. Again and again I am heartened by the work of the participants, the slow journey towards the open break and the subsequent healing - the sheer bravery in completing any step of our thirty day course.

And this is the result: a book of poems that are unedited, raw as the heart that beats it’s blue blood, unearthing, unwinding, spinning words like ceramic plates on the tip of a magic finger! These poems are fresh as a wet wound, wise as Gram and I know you will see yourself reflected in the stories. After all, our experiences are shared truths. The circumstance may differ, the plot twisting in variant ways but the emotions are profoundly human. Thank these women for airing out their truths, hanging them on the line like the coziest sweater for you to snuggle in, warmed by the sun. Thank yourself for reading, the first step to putting your own language to work. Can’t you just feel the courage coloring the sky!

And to the authors of this anthology: a kiss of blessings on each of your foreheads. What a gift it has been to watch you fall open like a flower. What a joy it is to read your works and feel my own self strengthening. What comfort it is to know you are marching out into the world, glowing so brightly. Shine on!

In love & poems, Caits Meissner Course facilitator & poet

PS. Join us for the next 30 day course journey by visiting www.caitsmeissner.com/course

TABLE OF CONTENTS1. Little bird bones are so hollow by Bilen Berhanu 2. watch her (for my momma) by Bilen Berhanu2. Yoga Logic by Anita Brown3. Sanctified by Anita Brown4. Enough II. Reminders by Lauren Ash5. Misery/Learning to Heal by Lauren Ash6. The Keeper by Amy Lee Czadzeck 7. Margaret is Every Womean I Write by Amy Lee Czadzeck 8. behold by Chopp 9. the misguided twin of my muse by Chopp10. Sewing by Mette Loulou von Kohl11. Sprinklers by Mette Loulou von Kohl12. Parade by Morgana Phoenix 13. Hummingbird by Morgana Phoenix14. Mi Madre Patria by Karla Rodriguez15. Always Be You by Karla Rodriguez16. Landscape by Lisa Smith17. Barb by Lisa Smith18. FOR BROTHAS WHO THINK IT IS OKAY TO INTRUDE ON MY SIDEWALK SPACE by Raq Mayoral 19. MIS(S)TAKEN SEX by Raq Mayoral20. Work by Katherine Webber21. Stories to be written by Katherine Webber 22. i am fire. by Michelina Ferrara23. you will never be the same. by Michelina Ferrara24. For Sandra by Cristina Preda25. Land by Cristina Preda26. Historical & Ancestral Narratives by Ariana Allensworth27. Letter to Self by Ariana Allensworth28. My Reflection by Katie Hanna 29. Thing I can do with my body by Esther Karin Mngodo30. Ngorongoro by Esther Karin Mngodo31. A wound. by Hokuma Karimova32. Power of Love by Hokuma Karimova

Little bird wings flapped against his clammy hands,Vertebrae pressed back into cold concrete.There are no handrails down those stairs.Damp tongue flops around a small mouth,Jaws slack as spirit leaves body.There are no lights on in that room.Little bird flies up and away,Gathering her crushed bones from under him.There is no one watching when you get home.Small mind shuts deadbolt door,Small heart calcifies and hardens in ribcage.There is still time to come back.Little bird knows her bones are hollow,Glowing neon pinks, purples and oranges of city sunsets.There is sweetness in holding this in your wings.

Little bird bones are so hollowBilen Berhanu

light bounces off glossy red nailsmatching lips, a perfect poutshe has no kinda time for none of thisshoulders square up to hold up crownthe cloud of etan smokealmost obscure the jewelsgabhi clad masses huddleat her door, beg for her eyesto land a moment on their faceseucalyptus trees limbs whispercaress her blessed headshe crushes a leaf or twoboils a pot of shiro, sendsspatters of qibbe across the tilesladles it out gracefullywe watch the harvest moonbarely rise above the tall bleached grassthe velvety mounds of earthall love bends toward hershe tugs at the cornersand it goes flowing back

watch her (for my momma)Bilen Berhanu

with each breath connect anewto centerpurity embodying full, fresh-faced lovethe mirror lies

inhale expansionnotice everywhere-nesstight tension-filled hips tell old storiesof hatred and jealousyyet to be releasedtaut as a violin stringlies, the whole lot of ‘em

feet planted firmlysalute the sunbow down surrenderbreath catchesstruggle ensuesas the kinked and whorly shoulder knotattempts to detour and blockprana vitalitya life-time of tactical scheming to dwell in long-forgotten dramasand yes, lies

lunge, twist, savor strengthstability that reckonsOma’s hugsflexor making itself knownin no uncertain termsrage and drunken foolishnessplaying a bar-room ditty in this venuefoul music to anyone’s ears

Yoga LogicAnita Brown

a fraud’s pitch

savasanathe earth envelops in darkness the starsilluminatesqueezed and extractedpresenceawaitshonestly and boldlyembracing TRUTH

a wise man told me i was sanctified todayso i returned to the rivercoursing through my veinsand felt for the life that swayed to and frolike a tiny fishing boat trying to settle

but the voyage has merely just begunand the evolution of this journeyhas no endwhat appears to be a monsoonmay be a rainbow after all

allowing in the whole possibilityof a captive future bobbing in this currentexperiencing true abundanceand endless feasting

come follow mesaid the Nazareneand the damn brokecausing the rivulets to bubble upand stream freelyin acceptance of the offeran inner knowingto trust my aqueous intelligencethat the hour was ripe to cast my netto become a fisher of men’s souls

SanctifiedAnita Brown

You are a quiet spirit who is going through a difficult process of healing. You were born into a sea of salt, barriers of life slowly deteriorating you. But, your head is strong, even when the rest of your body feels weak. Your mind is confused at times, yet unbreakable. Your heart is in repair, but always loving. Even when at times when you know you feel the *illness beginning to take over, you reach for reminders for guidance. Warsan Shire reminded you you are terrifying, strange, and beautiful. Alex Elle reminded you to learn to embrace the rain. Nayyirah Waheed reminded you being honest about my pain makes me invincible. Your sister reminded you that you are her biggest inspiration to push through the struggle. It’s never just enough. *illness-depression

Enough II. RemindersLauren Ash

how long can one withstandthe never ending ache ofmisery

what mustone do to escape theshameful feelingsofworthlessness

how longshould one watch their own bloodspill from their limbs

how doesone survivein this jadedlife

when willthe searingpainend?

let thosewoundsheal

let the

Misery/Learning to HealLauren Ash

salt waterflow

inhalehopeexhaleredemption

the endis near.

The length of her patienceall are held in her loving arms. The ghostly walls of her sculpture studiofilled with nothing and everything.

Friends say, “you keep it,” of their handmade riches.She visits the graveyard to place these treasures upon the fog filled headstones as the child within awaits a full life.

Together, and alone, she sits below with a notebook at the foot of some tall pines, ants crawling on her leg are no bother, she writes life.

The trees stretch higher from knowing her voice. And from those precious toes to the fallen nest where mother squirrel gathers her babes, she prays.

At home, her humor of bunnies slippers meet just enough challenge from the penguin dog that loves far beneath his wet nose.

Her loves sleep in the comfort of her awake where she dances, dressed in her spinny happy body, in their rainbow library, where stories are made.

The KeeperAmy Lee Czadzeck

She, the matriarch, with thirteen books left to write. Her father left instructions on how to dress. Since then she lost count of the flap of her wings For nothing she does is separate from her roots.

I never thought, Grandmother, had another life beyond this kitchen.I never thought, us, Women, had their own medical charts to keep. I never thought, desire was more than counting ten fingers and ten toes.

I want a lineage of Her and Home and Self and Garden and Artistry linked with Humanity.

Grandmother. Women.She left us with her bleeding heart on the first floor of the hospital floor.Crippled, gripping each other, and holding Grandfather up.

Margaret is Every Woman I WriteAmy Lee Czadzeck

glowing leavesthe color of kiwi fleshemerge from my finger tipsas itap the wind.

the perch of a dog’s ear when interest strikes,the tickle of a jasmine scented breeze when i pass...summoning acceptanceto float.my hair likedandelion fur rebelling against gravity,caressing the day full with the sensation of indulgence.

it’s okay,it is most certainly fine for you to engage in this emotive strut.let it nourish all of your curiosityas i sprinkle brilliance into each step,turning earth into sky,beyond end.

deliver my soul,usher out spirit.withthe magnetism of a stamen’s sticky gluethe tender grip of grape skin. i crawl into your crevices,and harvest miracles.renewing your celestial vision,i teach you to vibrate with thetrembling rhythmthat stars keep.

beholdChopp

a crease of lighttrickles outan opportunitya room filled withhundreds of golden huesbold green leavesflowering petalsunfolding onto cement,grounds me.some glow likeiridescent wondera fireflies backsideothers stretchwide as hips of venus,sarah barrtman.this is my tribe.a bouquet,stem for stemmyriad ofwombmen.i seek the refugeof my sisters.i make darkinto light.and in this room,i murderthe misguidedtwin of my muse.it is my rite.

the misguided twin of my museChopp

You sewed my lips together with your smileEach crease by your mouth weaved The needle and threadThrough each fiber of skinThrough each layer of muscleThick and slow like molassesMy blood began to pour from the punctures And I began to choke on my teeth

But this is the way we had taught ourselves to beWith one anotherThere was silenceNo real acknowledgment until the endOnly the slow drops of bloodFrom my mouthLanding in a pool on your dirt scuffed shoesThis was our obsessionAnd I smiled

Your disappearance made me pull those threads tighterForcing my lips closer togetherSo not even a whisper could escapeWhy turn on you when I could turn on myself?

But that can only last so longEventually there’s nothing left to hitBecause it’s all bruised already And there’s no more release in watching the skin turn from olive to blue

I wanted to paint sunsets with my tongue again

So I clipped that thread with the knife you gave meAnd kept it in a small boxUntil I heard the dirty hard base From the dance floor

SewingMette Loulou von Kohl

And I remembered how you hate to dance

So I threw it awayRealizing that it is hard for me to let things go

As the thread hit the waterMy teeth grew back as diamondsI watched the thread float awayDown the violet stream hidden under the city streetsAnd thanked you for sewing me so hardThat I now know how to mend the holes in my heart

Licking me down in my bellyBehind the locked bedroom doorCar horns seeping through the crackFrom my bedroom windowAs you break my cunt from the outside with your eyesThe spotted pavement rising from the heatWarm concrete slippingInto our lungsReminding us of when we were younger

Running through the sprinkler in the parkThe drops beating against Our simmering skinErasing the moment In my bedWhere I was the boyAnd you were the girl

Your kiss planted a seed in my bellyI felt it growAs the leaves turned to fireAnd the sidewalks to white dust

A peach tree flowered from my bellyBut I let the fruit rotToo scared to understand Your gift to me

Laying in bedAloneBehind the locked doorWhere I was the boy And I was the girl

Until the air became thick beads of heat

SprinklersMette Loulou von Kohl

Dancing with regretAnd I wished to cool my skin once moreUnder our sprinklersBut I did not recognize myselfRefracted in the dropsAnd you were not there to help me clean upThe blemished brown peachesDecorating my feetLike the kisses you left On the inside of my lungs

Do you hear that?Can you hear the drums

and horns?Off in the distance,there is dancingand balloonsand it is coming this way!That beat - vibrating off my skinDon’t you see the sparkleof brilliant colors in my eyes?My smile?Damn, that parade is jamming!The color-guard is coming inI’m gonna pick up a flagWaving this banner highStopping trafficwhile little kids clap along

Have you seen me danceto the beat of my own drum?Have you seen the colorsI can paint the world in?Have you seen my inner 5 year oldand the way she stares in wonder?Have you seen the trailI’ve blazed?

The rain can comeand I will dance in itFace turned upSmiling

Once I left the shadowsand felt the sun

ParadeMorgana Phoenix

I grabbed holdLet it burnas I swallowed one of its raysThere is always summer in this heart

And the band plays on...

You are as much art as artistThe boldness of theColors in your craftAre a reflection of youAnd your paint speckled denimYou hold a paintbrushWith the same confidence in your walkYour dance, your talkYour energy nearly levitates youThe jewelry that decorates youGlows like NYC on a rainy night

Your inner lightIs likeThat full moonYou stopped to photographOne Friday night

You are an ever changing canvasEach moment as stunning as the last

Are you aware of the depth in your eyes?The beam in your smile?The glow of your skin?The fire in your conversations?Your aura is the color of love

You are hummingbirdA constant flurry of beautiful motion

I see you, one dayAs an Abuelita,On brownstone stepsReading Tarot for teenage girlsWith cards you’ve painted

HummingbirdMorgana Phoenix

Scenes from your lifeBecause there is so much colorIn you

Lavish green mountainsAmple like the hips that birthed youAnd the breasts that fed you life and energyThat birthed and nurtured a nationOf violence and bloodshedWhere the sins of the father came back for their sonsTo judge and punish themBut what about their daughters?What sins are we paying for?And our children?And our children’s children?And our children’s children’s children?What about my children?Whose sins will they be paying for?Don’t let their youth slip away without have tastedArepas de choclo, empanadas, arequipe, sancochoSpring rain in the mountain valleyHolding her first sparkler on xmas eveGrandma’s red nail polishSo that she can find her balanceWhen life strikes its first blow to her gutAnd makes her feel like she’s drowning under wave after crashing waveAnd the salt water quickly starts to take up the room of airBut she’ll grit her teeth and bear itShe’ll push and push upward until she finds the surfaceUntil she climbs out of that black holeAnd gasps for one more fighting breathLike so many before her.

Mi Madre PatriaKarla Rodriguez

Hmm! what am I going to do with you?!That stoic face, like the calm stillness of a lakeBut don’t let that fool you!Look at that hair!

Those sweet brown curls that I could get lost in like summer days

People are going to think you’re the soft pink petal of an orchid

You have your father’s rough, calloused, been-workin-all-damn-day handsAnd we wouldn’t want you any other way

Those large almond eyes that look like endless cotton clouds in the skyAnd why wouldn’t they want to look into an endless ocean?With questions always brewing between those ears girl

Pillow soft lips, put on that red lipstick booYou look like a QueenOh no no no my dear, don’t look down,Keep your eye on the prize

Just like that little pouch down by your stomachListen to it. It’s not just for holding babiesOr your favorite homemade apple pie sliceNow what rebellious, intellectual, and comical tattooedman is going to resist you?

Stop defending yourself. I don’t need to hear it!Stop trying to tell me I’m wrong. I won’t change!Neither will a lot of people, and that’s okay.Because you shouldn’t change either, just grow.

Be difficultBe opinionated

Always Be YouKarla Rodriguez

Be smart

Keep going till you’re blue in the face

QuestionHold them accountableBe comfortableBe friendlyBe loudSing moreKeep dreaming

You are equal, but differentAlways be you.

Tall Piney woodsSway full-bodied in the wind.The shadow of steeples always nearThe dull, low, murmur of the prison count siren.A giant blowing into an old glass bottle

Day in, day out surrounded by wallsThe forestThe churchAnd prisons.

Preachers and Teachers are my peopleBaptists as far back as I knowProud peopleGodly folkNot ashamed of the twang in their voice,Or the Bible that nuzzles up with the gun in the glove compartment.

Poor wandering preacher A young wife who left school to fulfill her dutyTwo small kids: boy, girlThree hostages bound by holy matrimony.

How often was my father told to be a man,As tears from pain welled in his eyes?

A small boyBeaten, switched, belted, and probably worse.Did Grandad quote scripture,While he whipped?Or did the demons of his past take holdAnd his eyes glaze over The way my father’s later would?

Did the churches know?

Landscape Lisa Smith

Were there whispers at potluck?Is that why he fled?Church to church,Was help ever offered to the poor wife?Or did she have to make the bed, She chose to lie in?

Only the boy was beatenBut all were terrorized.

I wonder what advent was like in that houseWhat did the Christmas tree look like?Did my grandma play piano and warble Oh Holy Night,While my dad and aunt hung the ornaments?

Father was always warm on Christmas morn.We’d eat the sticky buns my mom had preparedSometimes though I’d see sadness in his eye

He did his best to break the cycle,I think.Sometimes it’s hard to say that:My sister, screaming, beneath his bare backHim holding her with one arm,And the ping-pong paddleBreaking across her back.Not all his demons were mastered.

I was so young; My fear was born that day.

But Baptists are if nothing else,One’s to forgive (on the surface at least)Recommit to GodAtone, atone, atone for their sinsFor all have sinnedFallen shortWanting, glory.

You don’t have to be re-baptized

That’s not strictly allowedOnce saved always savedWhether you like it or not

So one day in ParadiseI guess I’m doomed to walkSide, by side,The miserable manipulative AbuserThat created my father.

When the arrow pierces deep, soft tissueHold on.Don’t remove it Or you’ll bleed out.Instead, hold on. Until you can snap off the shaftLet the head remain. The heart will heal around the pointChanging the beat foreverBut forcing it to pump harder.

BarbLisa Smith

You must not know whose presence you are inSo I’mma explainI am the OneIt is my song that opens up heaven’s gateMy touch heals your woundsMy kisses stop warsI taught the gazelle how to be gracefulEagles ask how I elevate so highAnd the mighty redwoods learned to stand tall from meThe sun tries to out glow my light but only the moon rivalsfor She is my direct reflectionLove is in my eyesPeace is my voiceI know you’re hypnotized by my hips’ switch and how they exclaimQueen’s here, Queen’s hereHell yeah, I’m hereStepping in the cement of your memoriesThese prints become immortalizedlike all the world is Brahman’s Chinese TheatreI’m like a mouse to an elephantbut with the royalty of a lionessA needle in the haystack struck by lightningThe black widow in her damp silky web at daybreakI am something to beholdAnd you can’t touch thisUnless you ask first

FOR BROTHAS WHO THINK IT IS OKAY TO INTRUDE ON MY SIDEWALK SPACERaq Mayoral

desecrated by menswords & shaftsremove all loveno feeling left of summer kissing our fleshy hillssweet nectar no longer is produced by our yoni flowerswhat to make of women with no womb?arsoned with terrorStonehengeddecorated with piles of ivory bonescaves are more inviting‘cause intruders made homes herein these fieldsof white lilies, soft and swayingthey did not heed the pleading screamsthey held down daughters for their own righteousnessthey did justice in their mindsand turned heaven into the devil’s playgroundwhat’s left of these angelsare shells of their former selvesunlike a butterfly out of a cocoonthey are not stunning nor soaringthey are scared shitlessdo not touch herdo not touch mewe are not yours to touchwe are suppose to choose who we let enter our Queendombut somehow a Trojan horse arrivedand now we are conqueredand defeatedand misplacedby those who we knew to beour knights in shining armor

MIS(S)TAKEN SEXRaq Mayoral

Then

ink runs with a tear splashas dimples appear on the paperlead snaps on today’s datebound to frustration by men in matched striped shirtssame meeting same outcomethe cardigan thread unraveled by chewed fingernails

Now

red shoes, lips, necklacecommanding the head of the tablediary and pen at the readyknowledge drawn from this grand buildingnew ideas given by the river flowing pastlight reflects off blue eyesas dimples appear next to my smile

WorkKatherine Webber

I treasure the warm glow I get thinking about Bing and all that she didan atlas full of countries, experiences and activitiesI wipe away tears for all that was left undonebooks left unread in a libraryand I think of all the girls for whom school is no optionthe stories never written, never told

the thrill a uniform, ribbons neatly tie plaits, stiff new squeaky shoesrows of desks facing blackboards, graffiti from those years gone byteacher with chalky fingers standing tall eager to eachsharpened pencils, blank pages, old text books at the readybut like the car accident in the desert, poverty is a killer of futures unwritten

Stories to be writtenKatherine Webber

descendant of tired immigrants trapped in a hurricane of americanadaughter of compassionate tongue (lightening)granddaughter of thunder

a universe inside the walls of her skineach star illuminating new galaxies to exploreadorning each curve

once a sleeping dragon, now a mistress of creationhips once seen as mountains filled with lost travelers,now give birth to generationsthe winds of her spirit sparkrevolutions of healing

my gravitational force pulls you indeeperand deeperand deeper

i am fire.Michelina Ferrera

your flesh weighs heavy on your spiritso deep are the wounds you carryyou cannot even see yourself

generations of mothering worn on your hipsthey carry stories, lies, deceiti am the daughter of two continents that never fully met in my own body

though they both live here nowthey have never found peace

my legs, large and loominga chrysalis that hangs from my waistwaiting, waitingto be acceptedlonging for love, touch, transformation& dainty summer shortswhen really, they command purpose

all of these curves...spill into a hatred that can barely be containedthe slippery sides of mountain trailsthat travelers aim to conquer before sunsetor rest in throughout the cold night

uncharted trails lead so hopelessly to a riverthe river repeating back to meall of my body’s shamemy body’s monster lives thereshouting. screaming. begging to never be forgotten.

you will never be the same.Michelina Ferrera

Like each morning’sconflagration over Arizonayou rise and danceyourself electric,perform the ritualof adornmentbeads/ bangles/ blessas though jewelrywere water for baptismand bare skin,a holy beggar.

You could teach mesomething aboutcontrolled fires.

You, who foundhumor in the deadpotted cactus, beautyin the moldy corn husks,faith in the Made in Chinasticker on the bottomof the Virgen de Guadalupestatue you made a shrine towhen you got into Columbiaand tried bringing Harlema piece of the desert.

You could teach meabout slow burns,love and forgetfulness spells,how to make and use knives.

Your voice, sun-drenchedwith a side of don’t mess,

For SandraCristina Preda

is what I imagine theydub episodes ofI Love Lucy within Mexico.

You are what Frida Kahlomight have madehad she beengiven only yellows.

What Cortés might haveseen and turned back fromhad he paused on the shoreand looked into the sun.

When we drink too much,you start speaking Spanish,I speak Romanian,and we understandeach other perfectly.

Which is to say,we are tangledlike the rootsof our languages,we are two branchesstretching skywardfrom the same tree.

A potato field, bare. The last harvestof a generous season. A fire let loose,but it was supposed to have beena controlled blaze. Acres and acresof fat, leftover potatoes roastedbeneath topsoil. What the barometerof the country might have read:The last generous season.A plane ticket. Five years between us,but an entire hemisphere, incomprehensibleas a language not yet spoken or heard.The indelible imprint of weather.How despite desert climatethere is always a chill. To misrememberhunger as the idolater of food, of wine.To gorge oneself beyond vulgarityand still hanker, always, for more.

LandCristina Preda

above my dresser hangs a sepia toned landscape of my elderskeeled over in a deep fraternal moment of laughteri pass it daily, uplifted always at my fly, funky and fierce bloodline

a visual time capsuleof the time before crack

before daddy went to Vietnam and came back wounded, on the outside,

but inside too

before crack pipes sucked out their youthful glow and tooth-filled smiles

before the letters to San Quentin had beguntheir resilience radiates, like the sun, onto me

Historical & Ancestral NarrativesAriana Allensworth

Dearest Ariana,

New York City

Here, you are like shea butter, tough on the surface but easily spread thin

Just like Mom

Your disposition a bit too sunny

Dreaming on pacific standard time of palm trees and warm afternoons in a papasan chair.

No money saved, just living check to check with a room full of heavybooks, incense, thrifted garments and one too many film negatives.Some eucalyptus leaves too, cuz they smell like home.

Waiting for the next chance to uproot. What’s stopping you?

There’s something about this city that’s so damn hard to quit. Can’tquite locate it yet.

Heirlooms of your multiethnic roots adorn every crevice of your room.

You’re a shape shifter; no victim to two dueling binaries- you’veembraced every nuance of your multihood.

Dreams of radical possibilities and sherbet colored rainbows.

At unease as you feel the fierce, fearless idealism of youradolescence chipping away. How does one sustain political courage?

Stay true.

Love Letter to SelfAriana Allensworth

I have avoided mirrors for so longthat I have forgotten what I look like.

I see my breasts every dayhanging out of my shirt witha child dangling from one or the otherhis feet walking on my shouldersdown my arms,from one leg to the other.

the tugging and pulling of once taut skinresemblesthe pull of cow hide as it becomes leatheror the nakedness of a plucked chicken-its like that of a dead animal.

Each day my breasts whisper secrets to my belly button-once a long lost cousin, but nowa neighbor they creep closer to day by day.they tell stories of days when men suckled from my breastsand played with my nipples in the darknessof classrooms.

when was the last time a man has even touched them, now?

I sit on a deflated balloon,handfulls to the touchif you dare get past their sight.

This is a body only a blind man can appreciate.

this is no 22 year old, not even 25 year old.it has been sucked, fucked, plucked,punched and bruised and taken for gold.it has even bore a child.

My Reflection: Katie Hanna

it’s been mine and yours and even theirsbut not for some time- if ever-has anyone held it as sacredor prayed to its alter of saggy nourishing breasts of pudgy universe holding wombs of fat fingers and hands carried through generations of skin with fine lines and acne alike

Nope, all wicks left un-singedall incense still in its box.the only sacrifice has been me.

I can praise loudlyI can worship humblyI can kiss tenderlyI can heal gentlyI can peal frequently I can sing like a bird And bring joy to my soulI can laugh and transcendMy energy like an echoI can dance unapologetically with a rhythm of my own I can hug intenselyI can write profuselyI can breathe deeplyI can live fiercelyI can love passionatelyI can love, passionately

Things I can do with my body Esther Karin Mngodo

the first time I gazed into you, I saw magicI saw what I wanted to see in myselfI saw brave, I saw bold, I saw raw life I saw what I never thought could be possiblegentleness and fierceness co-existing in the same bodyfire and water blending into each other in public like it was natural

I was in aweI was out of breath You are a breath of fresh airand I gazed upon your beauty

Like a child who had just seen his mother for the first timeeyes wide open, iris dilated

Like a mother, who had just seen her child for the first timeheart wide open, love fixated I saw how you wore jewels of the heart with such humilitypraise of your name had nothing to do with your framebut your character -

the quality of your mind was impeccable You are the open skies of Ngorongoro,naked and bare for all to seeyou opened your mouth and like a gentle breezeyour silence kissed my soulwhispering gently to my core You are the Ngorongoro craterThe womb of nature

NgorongoroEsther Karin Mngodo

Wild at heartYet sensitively humble to a kind remark I wanted to be youI wanted to have what you haveI wanted to be loved as you werenot because I hated youbut only becauseyou had the guts to be you,And that my love, makes you so damn beautiful

A wound. A well - so dark and deep. So moist, so chilling. What lies beneath. A secret - violent and intriguing. Yours to keep. No tests to use, to uncover. Don’t grind your teeth.

Won’t find it, on the surface of a golden coin. Won’t find it, in silver linings of stormy clouds. You’ll find it, in quick punches, straight to the groin. In whiplash of love - like sharp teeth of hounds.

You are the prey. Don’t run. It’s way too late. Freeze, look around. The world is spinning. Heart bruised. Eyes red. Won’t smile at your fate? Stand tall. Time’s left. Your heart still beating.

Look up. Night sky. Dark, but stars still shine. Look down. Your feet, glued to this Earth. A glass. A sip. Drink up the numbing wine. Cheers to your life! For whatever it is worth.

A wound. Hokuma Karimova

Desire. A raging fire in the woods. Absorbing oxygen and spitting yellow. Destroying green. Leaving black goods.Thick smoke. All wild, nothing mellow.

A power pushing forth. Aimed at domination,Of everything around. Deleting all, by chance.But in the deadliness, there’s passion. Inspiration.So mesmerizing. Taking your breath all in a glance.

Start struck, in awe. A powerless captivation. The way love takes us by surprise. A treasure chest, filled with temptation. You cannot help and walk to your demise.

And when its through. You sit in smoke and ash. The charcoal stains your skin, your heart. Wondering - all power gone in just a flash! The heat too hot. It tore you right apart.

They say don’t play with fire. You’ll burn yourself. They say be careful, what you wish for. You thought you’re different. You’ve got stealth. So why so shattered? Crying on the floor.

Power of LoveHokuma Karimova