It’s hot in the middle of the storm. It’s humid
gray. Makes the dust bloat. I can hardly breathe in
it, air moving too fast for me to hold onto, wind’s body
swimming over mine. Like being in a room when all
anyone wants is a little power over you, arms stroking
against heads, black wide glass eyes darting, staying afloat...

In dance class we are told to fall forward–
hurtling our bodies ahead, asking to be caught
by our selves once we get there. What I put forward as
flesh gets pushed back by wind. Our bodies hurtle against
each other, one risen from the sea, one made out
of clay... Power is a series of erasures. You fall into it. You
push against it. It pushes back. The wind is full of coyotes
saying, saying –

Some days, I say, I don’t think of it
at all. I wake up having already been loved
by the entrance of the day, the day that says come out
now. The day that says the earth is your friend and you
have a secret between you– it is your life. You walk out
under the blue carpet of night and see planes migrating

overhead, then a fountain, this magnolia tree, its pink
fisted buds newly unclenched, dormancy beat open,
pushing up against the seed-coat... Here we are,
we did not ask to be woken, though it was not easy,
not safe, we open as oblations on a dark branch,
pink-veined luscious mouths drummed open by rain.
A voice inked with water and wind rises. And the black
loam beneath.