I’ve not been to a desert except
for some parking lots
and family reunions.
I know emptiness.
Over the years, I have been filled
with books and music and drawings
from passersby heading
somewhere else.
I know transient satisfaction.
I railed secretly
(and then not so secretly)
at never being anyone’s destination.
But that’s not my gift.
I am no goddess of remorse or recompense
but a humanist committed to renewal.
I know metamorphosis.
I’ve not found any endings
except in sentences
and they don’t count for much.
I know so little.

Trying to make new fingerprints
with superglue and leaves
because being the fleshy schoolgirl
has gotten old
and I want to be a tree,
holding my ground,
giving sway only to a breeze
instead of anyone’s idea of taboos.

I remember when I was as thin as a sapling
and sick all the time,
balancing terrors of home
with allure of the outside world.
Staring out the window at trees
became my religion.
I can’t peel away those awful moments
so I thicken and age and sway anyway.

Is it strange
to be unsettled
after a rainstorm has finished
clearing old dust and bones?
Why the yearning
for dirt and stone and moss
after a deep cleanse?
Could it be
we want to be returned
to a state of pure earth
where we revel in every touch
and breath like they are new revelations?
Are we afraid we will be lost
making our own way
after we spit in the eye
of a dreamweaver?