somedays it's the whirling derviches inside my solar plexus,
inside my breast cavity
trying to make their way to my heart.
what are they doing here, again?
what do they want from me?
what nourishes them?
are they hungry for my love?
i pick up the dogs poop and i can feel the high
the gold temple
the torquoise eyeliner
thick on the edge of the eylid like all the poems i love
their bare feet like gorgeously worn rugs in every bathroom of the house
so many stories inside their soles
as they turn and turn and turn.
in the distance
i can feel a tenderness at the bottom
maybe it's the low belly or even lower
maybe it's the body below the body
it is never going to make sense
like a mother on fire
like an old story in my back pocket
to be seen is sacred terrain.
it is just a thursday in south pasadena
i am so high from this mint tea i didn't drink in Turkey
whirling like a crazy person
is it a prayer for sadness?
an offering of courage?
is it a shaking into remembering?
to soften the to do list.
i would rather hide
share the beauty from this corner
be found by the hungry ones
dug up by those who want
someone who happens to be in the neighborhood.
i am whirling and courage is in the bougainvillea today
it is 8:22 am and i wasn't expecting visitors
the white jasmine lines the sidewalk
i see the sticky rosemary
i have to roast that chicken
that will save me