When I’m Sensitive/ I’ll use contractions in my poems if I want to, Professor.

I can feel the heavy belly of over-eating,

and the light from the screen is troublesome.

So is the repetitive sound, hooking its anchors into me one jingle at a time,

rewarding my center ’til I’m numb,

the great escape of the mind.

Even she does not want to be earth-bound, why?

Immortality versus reproduction.

Since when has nature been denied?

When I’m sensitive, I feel the chill of the air on my

skin and shiver.

When I’m sensitive, my guts relax and I can let go.

My clothes feel tight, unless they slide.

When I’m sensitive, I crawl back into the womb, white

noise and heartbeats are my lullaby.

When I’m sensitive, I want to be naked

in the rain under the stars,

or,

in a cave at nighttime, hands and feet plunged

into the dirt, and when I’m sensitive, I teach

you how to be around me.

When we get good, you know when exactly to kiss me,

and to watch me peripherally.

And I can learn to listen to the Goddess surround me:

Trust,

let go,

don’t listen to the mind,

she left town long ago.

Plunge your hands in the dirt,

dip your feet into the snow.

Only then will you see,

exactly where you need to go.

It is is not a there or here,

this or that equation.

It’s a little bit of this and a little bit of that.

And then we stand tall, like rooted trees in the earth,

reaching toward the starry dynamo in the machinery of night.

Ground the mind to the earth.

 

When I’m sensitive, the mantle the world has placed around my shoulders

is lapis lazuli.

It is a great blessing, to be sensitive.

 

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