Labor

The tension between darkness and the rest of me is a movie that I watch in the evening then dream about, spreading over my feet thick and mossy. A feeling I can’t shake or reason. Following me closely, pressed against my back, breathing in my ear  – I cannot reason for space.

I know you are not me, lurker.  I know you don’t really know who I am.  I think that I have talked some sense into you that you’ve retreated but you have not.  Really. Moved. But back and away, further forward in through my torso into my arms pushing out to the tips of my fingers filling my hips and my organs as if you, not I, own them. Skin bulging.  That moment of capacity is when I am not my own, when myself gives way not because it wants to but because my strength is gone. I’m just bones and skin.

The pivoting is timely.  A sound that comes from every open space visible and molecular, a familiar and unidentifiable tone, sustaining.  That sound is a bell reaching distance that I can no longer reach, providing cool water in the cracked scorch. Squeezing out slowly through my inhabited skin in an exhausting labor miserable and redeeming.



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