hello...

rhythmically knocking on

interlocking

vertebrae holding

up back

hello

_

is any body

home behind lips sealing

doors shut

close call without a

key

must've slipped it between

the spine of a story

written way back when

compact discs

arrived

_

been walking streets familiar

bare feet on concrete

pounding on soles

sending shivers up

spine

_

writing home

is a muscle

spasm sucker-punching dark

corners of right

pinky toe (the nerve!)

_

dear body why

do i ask you

to hold so much hello

is any body

home

tried dialing you

back but busy

signals sound tones

ringing in

ears

_

so many digits on

hands help re-member

which one to phone

calling you

home

been a while since

i last came

round these hearts body

i am ready to come

home

do you remember

the first time we

opened our eyes

because i

don't

_

was it like

waking up lids

half crusted with

sleep rolling

over

_

onto feline familiars

stretched out squinting

side-eyed at

slivers of

sun

_

was it that moment when

fingers reach light

switch sooner than

expected brilliant

intruders

can you

help me

re-member

the way(ves) back

home

_

did you leave a map

between crows

dancing on edges of

window

frame(d)

_

by perfect portraits

stuffed into soles

of ballet shoes

younger selves war

thin

will i find it

stumbling down

thighways

that bleed in

time

_

in rhythm with

moon cycles leading

back against bed

post about it

later

_

why have you (k)not

been answering

my calls hello

is any body

home

hello sweet love

i have always been home

come in (breath) now

ex(hale)it when you're ready

_

eye k(no)w write now it's

painful process of

chrysallis cocooning

and that's okay too

_

soon there will be

bare feet plugged into earth

rooting deep into ground

souls digging the dirt

_

hello sweet love

you are already home

come in (breath) now

ex(hale)it when you're ready

A timely note to you, dear reader:

This poem fell out of me just days before I was diagnosed with Chronic Inflammatory Response Syndrome (CIRS) after long-term progressive exposure to biotoxins. The "painful process of chrysallis cocooning" feels more present than ever right now. This particular poem is about my continued struggle to communicate with and come home to, a body that has been in survival and panic mode for at least the last 6 years of my life. Receiving this CIRS diagnosis has simultaneously felt heartwrenching and affirming. If you'd like to read more about my journey, and/or are in a place to help out financially or with words of encouragement, you can find spaces to provide both here: https://www.caringbridge.org/visit/rendirt

If you don't have the time or energy to visit the above site, a "like" and a monetary tip on my story are other great ways to support this particular journey.

Thanks loves

- Sur Ren Dirt