Centering in Me

My first memory was of her.

This is what I realize,

as I center in me.

The me that flames so hot I rage I rant I raise the waves that threaten

to overturn boats that carry those who watch me flounder in a sea that threatens to swallow me.

This is what happens.

When I center in me.

I've become a spit fire

or so some might say

or would they?

This is what it’s like to center in me.

I wonder if what I wonder is what they say when they refuse to answer.

What am I saying?

I sway.

I sway in the wind that tosses about.

This way and that.

That way and this.

I fly on the winds of change that toss me about.

The winds of change

are what I feel

when I center in me.

The winds of change

bring waters of oil

and light to skin

and gender

and sexuality

and religion

and world

and universe.

This is what it’s like.

To center in me.

I let myself be like the her I imagine we might be.

A first degree.

Relative.

Of a woman who carries a label.

The one we thought he had.

The world of defense and offense gave him a different than she

who we know is nothing more than a dumb blond

spouting nonsense about saving historical structure

for programming in the arts.

This makes sense not to those who read not lived.

It’s okay.

As I’m centering.

In myself.