Nerve Work
Weeding the garden of Vagus
along the path of my song I see
how many hands have cowered under moss cloud shame
their fragrance deadened by thin lips screeching of
enemies my own veins ought behead
I see our mother hands
how sweetly they sing
as I tug crocheted guts emblazoned
with guilt and not good enough
to unveil
golden rings of our arc lines
blazing
Toiling Vagus earth
I see our sacred chaos chain
and know my eyes I must gouge with womb water
so our hands can hold while knowing where they
start and stop
their soft grip chanting my mother and her's beauty
-ours-
my third jewel telling we hands are made of blossom
fragile and electric
ever power
ever pollened
Flowing-done-for-now
I hold our joy's bulbs
fluxing
communing
unfurling as
they ought
