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


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


my third jewel telling we hands are made of blossom

fragile and electric

ever power

ever pollened


I hold our joy's bulbs



unfurling as


they ought