Peaches Do Not Callous


How far must I travel
in order to come home to myself?
How many flights does it take
to bridge the gap between
the territory I was lost inside
and the region where my identity
is embedded in every inch of the terrain

                        fossils and roots.

When my feet are not bleeding
from newness and friction,
and sore spots become strong spots
I walk, as if walking could be a rare gift,
a small bite of chocolate to let dissolve
on the tongue.

When my heart expands,
far enough to let someone in,
It will never contract.
Somehow there is always space.

And when it is dropped to the floor,
bruised like soft summer peach,
fallen to the linoleum,
still it is growing


Every era of my life has
possessed its own texture,
except these moments,
of coming home to myself
which always feel the same to the touch:
pockets of feather down,
a handful of cattail fluff

How long does it take
to know in your bones,
that all is living and dying?
And that somewhere,
beyond a sense of self,
the world is growing bigger
and smaller
all at once.


                        (Peaches do not callous,
                                when they are hurt they become
                                                     only softer.)