Fight & Flight

Fight

My America.
At a crossroads
Stay and fight,
Or run?
Will I be the fighting Crone?
I believe I will.
There’s more than this.
More than this disparate world
Pandemics and politicians
There’s more than this.
More than the fighting
More than the headlines in 36-point type.
The in-between times
That is Life.
The spaces in between
when I’m not paying attention
the children grow, the roof leaks, the weeds grow through the cracks.
I feel as if I’m standing still
until one day (in the mirror), I realize I’m not.
I am not my body.
I am not my thoughts.
I am not my feelings.
I am a tether between physical and non-physical.
And yet, I’m not the tether.
I am undefinable.
The tipping point – I’m right on the edge.
I can feel the leaving of the old me and the coming of the new.
That edge, that precipice
That delicious precipice.
Will I be the fighting Crone?
I believe I will.

Flight

This is who I am
except it’s not.
Dissonance.

Like rain, a specific cacophony
every little note.
Each.
And then all.

The searing puncture in my chest, uninvited
Traveling at the speed of fright
Shocks to the tips of my toes

RUN!

Except I’m driving my son to school.
So I can only breathe and smile.
To make it stop.
To make it.
Stop.

The slamming of doors
The not knowing
Faster and closer now
what if I could just exist, without self-editing?

Gusts of wind blowing change.
Violence.
Shifts are needed and the dark doesn’t want to go
Birthing.

I dim my senses and it’s a waterfall
all the while I can hear each drop
the first chair, the second
the violin solo
ebb and flow
and silence
The Finale.
And finally,
Breath.