Natasha Wein
Belly Breathing
From my belly I spit little fires—
they are sweet & hurt & dusty.
Each slippery flame is work
to keep warm. I walk back to my
first step and other beginnings
I did not stick, waiting for moments
to unfasten myself from swift
hooks before I become what I am
not. I am my silhouette’s own
shadow unpicking learned stitches
and stretching long with the
morning sun. Burrowing deep,
I thread as many layers of
someone else’s warmth as I can;
I wear this seam with a ready
scream. Splitting closeness for
freedom, my working lungs
grieve like plastic bags in trees.
I am an echo talking back
to its origin, mourning its own
sound. Rolling over, back
into my periphery, I recite my
name to the wind; the wind
unable to be owned, an acrobat,
belonging everywhere, forever
choosing its direction, making a
mess with all of its hands.
they are sweet & hurt & dusty.
Each slippery flame is work
to keep warm. I walk back to my
first step and other beginnings
I did not stick, waiting for moments
to unfasten myself from swift
hooks before I become what I am
not. I am my silhouette’s own
shadow unpicking learned stitches
and stretching long with the
morning sun. Burrowing deep,
I thread as many layers of
someone else’s warmth as I can;
I wear this seam with a ready
scream. Splitting closeness for
freedom, my working lungs
grieve like plastic bags in trees.
I am an echo talking back
to its origin, mourning its own
sound. Rolling over, back
into my periphery, I recite my
name to the wind; the wind
unable to be owned, an acrobat,
belonging everywhere, forever
choosing its direction, making a
mess with all of its hands.
In Neuropathy’s Wake
when a paperclip
forgives and bends
back
it cannot hold
itself
forgives and bends
back
it cannot hold
itself
cauterized by its own
toughening
slipped
and a broken
hip knee caps
knocked loose slanted
like crooked frames
toughening
slipped
and a broken
hip knee caps
knocked loose slanted
like crooked frames
bruises have already
been broken calcifying
what they cannot clean
been broken calcifying
what they cannot clean
I am a collection of one-way
streets: tear ducts
oatmeal for dinner
the Great Saphenous Vein
rooting my heart to
the Earth
the inhales that won’t let go
and their
reaching fingertips
streets: tear ducts
oatmeal for dinner
the Great Saphenous Vein
rooting my heart to
the Earth
the inhales that won’t let go
and their
reaching fingertips
this tumbleweed of a body
picked and pruned
shattering
to the touch
my fingers sorting
through themselves crumbling
into my lap
picked and pruned
shattering
to the touch
my fingers sorting
through themselves crumbling
into my lap
I pocket the ones that point
and move with
the nomadic tribe
of pins
and needles
dancing and marching
burning
the length of my arm
for warmth
the nomadic tribe
of pins
and needles
dancing and marching
burning
the length of my arm
for warmth
Reclamation
A man I believe to be good curls my tongue like a ladle / drinking at high tide / summer sandboxes and bustling anthills / fists recede from tunnels as quickly as they plunge / the undertow and its advantage / tunnels collapse and plastic castles eulogize growing up and out / a graveyard / I pull teeth and what roots yank out / burying him into my youth / sound creeping up my throat / my desert mouth / lips stitched together by transplanted shame / a gift I welcome / barricading myself in for shelter / I squint at the cactus I have become / blooming into itself / ingrown spines / orphaned / my soft baby teeth once protruded through my gums like nobly mushrooms shouting hello to my novice mouth / today I water them and let something sprout / private.
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