to inflammation underbelly heat and moisture
deepening under breasts back fat thigh rub
fupa belly hang concealing sex
fungal infections and funky smells
to self whose own imagined annihilation was a lullaby
(please forgive me) this is a love letter to becoming
fat belly beeswax witch
sacrament of loving the reviled
rituals of anointment
underbelly sacred cave
in a network of sacred caves
a way back to holding this body wholly
salvation to remember a self back into being

wander to become familiar with inhabitants of the scrubby pond
notice the persevering personality of shelf fungus
climbing the still-standing snag of used-to-be tree
circle the nest of thicket and bramble
pause at the slightly shifted pitter patter of yellows and browns
a season’s leavings
the way a path becomes is through the trodding
something, no, someone, some body passes this way regularly
unseen but leaving trace
a bend of branch, a discernible disruption in layers of decay
like ghosts traveling our synapses
circling, circling, to find their way out of the labyrinths of our minds

after George Ella Lyons 

I’m from the family that doesn’t talk about it.
I’m from bruises under shirtsleeves
and secrets on the other side of darkened doorways.

Broken pyrex from Sunday dinner
curried shrimp and peas and shards of glass
swept up and put in the garbage
like it never happened.

I’m from speakeasies, poker games, and polka dancing.
Putting up pears in the fall and making cabbage rolls all winter long.
Where I’m from you better find something to do or I’ll find something for you.

I’m from woods thick with fallen leaves and dusty sunlight,
woodsmoke and bearded men with deer guns and beer cans
who might shoot your dog if she’s still outside at dusk.

I’m from the crazy quilt you find in the trunk of the attic;
bright and chaotic.
Dead relatives’ pajamas and overalls,
flannel and corduroy
stitched together with yarn.

Where I’m from, we’re all about second chances
because most of us didn’t know we were up the first time around.
Where I’m from ghosts walk among us
real as the stories we tell ourselves before going to sleep.

Where I’m from we’re trying to find peace,
in the corners we have retreated to.
Though no one is speaking
and most of us are dead.

Wild and desperate eyes
I would not let her in
Over and over I found her under my bed
creeping down the stairs to my basement
I locked my door against her and shut the blinds
she took the door off the hinges
The forest vines followed her to my table
I shrugged and began making chicken and rice
A pigeon made a nest in the coals of my fire and dreamt

People showed up carrying bowls
Walls became the inside of a hollow tree
Root ceiling, earthen floor
Stone in the soup
The pot stays full

A child filled their bowl 
singing the prophecies of their generation
as they left my kitchen, 
I felt left behind,
not sure of my part

I followed to witness 
the creators of our universe walking in procession
dry earthen paths lined by trees 
raising hands to the forever sky
joyful dust rising among 
dancing, celebrating, stomping feet

Robes of gauzy ochre fabric loose over limbs
Wooden staff in human hand
the face of the night bird looking back at me
I have always loved a parade

“Look” said my young guide and pointed out
two mothers, a family, of brown skin and woven black hair 
each carrying one of their children high in their arms

This child is called life, they are the creators’ allowance
This one is death; they are the creators’ constant
Both of their children are gifts