Core

The next poem from the series I wrote while staying in Port Townsend, Washington alone one summer

CORE

Hold the center
it’s exquisite and tender
a bouquet that flickers with molten heat

Grow the center
solidify it in your hands when need calls
let it slip through grasping fingers that aren’t your own

Wield it with intention
hands calloused, adrenaline humming  
the comfort of sleep
a distant murmuring river

The center is buoyant air
upon which fervent pulse thrums
through kitchens and thresholds and out of back windows
and you can feel the earthly potential of that which glitters so bright and sharp
that you no longer want to contain it
you are going to embody it

That’s the center
That’s the power of lovely rage