Listen. Listen to the soft voice in the lavender cloud. Listen to the stark motivation behind the asking. Listen to the heartbeat ripping through and between the bodies spooning. Listen to the ache and the pull and the refreshing window of in-between burgeoning towards. Listen to me. My heart is wide open and dancing in the breeze. Listen to me. My heart is an ocean made of a zillion fish turning into salt. Listen to me. My heart is tender tenterhooks tap-dancing along the shore. The dock is made of many teeth laughing. The paddle boat asks for surprise, and the dog swimming along rips open the water of the wake.
I am awake. My eyes softly reflect the light of the screen and the sunset, mixing like a smoothie of jumbo power. Each blending is a fresh moment. The light keeps changing, in subtle ways that scratch my bug-bitten back.
However many there are of you, angels and elves, I am one hundred. I am one hundred motions and one hundred slapjacks and three hundred towels dripping on the shower door.
If we are backwards, looking across the earth into false pajama idols, then the creeping whispers of internet passwords slipping into the crevice shall revive me. connect me to what is real. Really my feet rest on shiny hardwood floor; one foot really, one foot on the other. The colors of the room dim and blend into dark behind the screen and the lessening light thru the window. I am thru the window, my energy soars in an arc around me. I welcome you through the window, my husband. My tender-footed husband. My slapjack backpack rutabaga husband. here we are with flannel and beards, friends and forehead kisses and a baby with the brightest eyes.
Here we are with frankenfurter fallopian tubes, and gargantuan gumballs, and jars of water jumping into splashing hands and tumbly tummies.
I forgot to call you, as I slept in the cabin with my family of faeries. I forgot to call you, and it all worked out. You picked up the e-mail after with grace and flex, like a tangerine peel dangling from a line.
I’ve forgotten to call before. I’ve forgotten to brush my hair, to braid my hair, to floss between my teeth. I’ve forgotten to touch myself in the quiet times when I ache for another. I just lay there and ache and imagine.
Someday soon the ache will be met. The two aches will meet and relax into lips spreading into smiles. I am so excited to relax into the smile spread. I am so momentous about trusting that I can wait. Here is the momentum: bum bum. bum bum.
Tomorrow I go to class. A development circle. A seance semblance of witches holding hands. Except we don’t hold hands, and we sit in folding chairs, and I think about everyone’s hair. Last week I started to cry as I sensed the woman’s sadness.
I hear Ruby crying and I don’t go to her. A constant exercise in trust. An ever-interesting observation of the reason. I can barely see the water in the jar on the chair. I hear a mosquito. I want to write a story on the stripes of my shirt, but this is easier. More downstream.
I want to feel wise and huge and magnificent. I want people to trust me and reach for me and I reach for them and we arc like the sculptures I imagine us building in the field.
I love that I am friends with him. I love that his love feels like honey rain recycling sweat. I love how he is the perfect, perfect, perfect papa. And I love that he is and is not perfect, and how we grow together like beans and corn and squash. Perhaps we were three sisters at some point.