I am afraid of going numb to feeling.
I fear losing touch and contact with
this world—so sensitive in gifting us
the mirrors of reality
where our hearts can reflect back
all that we see
in sensual praise for the wildness
that we are
yet also in sensual grief
this daring of love
to love once again
through loss
and I grieve
I so deeply grieve
I grieve over the split from love to lover
how easily it is to fall in love with another
another face,
another place,
another taste,
another feeling
how easeful it is to send love
and forget who held its envelope
the ancestors of sighing sacrifice
who loved us so dearly
we can breathe today
how easy it can be to love friends
deeper than family and to act out a love
deserved
rather than needed and chosen
I grieve knowing how love may not reach us
in this system of scarcity
where gratitude is a rarity in a system
of lack—where we are not enough
I grieve how we have lost
being indigenous to ourselves
without the premises of gender, expectation,
vice or virtue as we loved ourselves
not to shrivel ourselves into categories
I grieve the circles of communing
that once were
now happining in zoomed landscapes
of glass and no physicality
how connection has become
radioactive: this nuclear family
in which its tight circle
chokes the wider forms of
possible life and living
I grieve knowing how this writing
may never reach those local to me
how I may be contributing
to this colonial landscape
of visiting, touring, and perusing
taking only the elements of a culture
we enjoy rather than sitting together
in the dark and waiting
waiting
dearly waiting
for something to emerge
a culture of sharing
by fireplace, by candle, and under
stars
a culture of sensuous speech
where we no longer are afraid
to hide behind the helms of thought
connecting to the needs of the moment
a culture of continual shifting
of meeting the moment rather than
measuring or manufacturing
a culture that embraces slowness
of tectonic grace,
knowing how divde and convergence
all make the foundation of connection
so I rest on this Earth
as bed knowing the atmosphere as my blanket
and dreaming in the wilderness
of these longings so native to me