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