Checking my reality for gravity,
I am certain the devil is memory.
Loneliness inside a humanity
so inhospitable to uncertainty.
I am earth and I am woman—
you watch me get sicker
day by day;
eight generations of
from a cherished cellular clay.
This life is a place of great death;
everyday I die a little more,
relieved to have let another piece go.
What are these things anyways?
A dishrag, a lover, my ring finger;
what are these things?
Everyday I practice losing—
a dishrag, a lover, my vision, my temper—
everyday I practice
in terror and relief—
asking others to hold the whole of me
in their 4×4 inch hearts—
driven to chase the illusion of satisfaction
again; in the end,
emptying even more into the great, dark ocean.