Her nails want some skin
to sink into.
Her jaw sometimes aches
when she wakes up in the morning.
She'll fashion a foothold;
the back of her knee, maybe.
Twisting her wrists
around her own DNA,
she'll drag herself up
Base by base,
until she knows the length
of her rein
Touching her mistakes
the way Jesus touched
the lepers' feet
Until she touches
an ending place.
There,
she'll plant a flag.
Scatter some stars.
Update the myths.
Punch a black hole through the Milky Way.
Be put in her place.
Pout.
Hurt.
Be over it, a bit.
Remind herself
again
that she is free to fail,
that freedom to fail
is everything.
Her religion
is doubt.
It changes her
Hourly.
3 comments:
doubt may be my religion as well. Love the "punch a hole through the milky way."
Charles stole my comment. :)
Though I know a certain author who gets this 'self doubt' for reasons beyond my comprehension. For doubt has no right to linger around someone so talented.
I just got a killer idea for your boss - "A poem inside each chocolate box! It'll be such a rage, I tell you!"
Charles, thanks. Doubt has its benefits. I think.
Aniket, I'll have to run that one by her. "Ode to the Cocoa Bean." The possibilities are endless. You are a genius.
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