There is comfort in the crumpling.
That slow surrender syncing low,
where body takes the lead—like a knowing
before its known, guttural and raw,
a maternal embrace
with the deep and wide.
It’s where intimacy is created,
down here on the cold floor,
cheek pressed to marble tile,
balled up tight like a fetus
refusing to leave—afraid
of the dark tunnel below.
There is weeping and wailing,
and gnashing of teeth, like
some familiar call to the wild,
escaping. I dive into the chasm
and let the anguish take me—
to cleanse me like the wind.
I have learned to let it breathe,
to howl it all out in one animalistic sob.
This time I know
how to survive the dark
places where the dead things are,
to wait for my lungs to fill again,
whole,
ready to burst forth anew.
With a final push I land
on the shore beyond the fear,
and emerge on the other side,
an infant of my own creation,
swaddled in my own arms,
suckling at my own breast,
and for the first time,
lovingly gaze into my own eyes.
Kelsey needs music and nature like breath and water and enjoys painting pictures with words. Currently, she walks the Earth barefoot, striving to raise two humans in a seemingly unpredictable world.