Unbreaking The Vase After death spat me out of its dark belly— I had to learn how to breathe again, had to walk through the forest, willing my pain to drop through the soles of my feet into the dirt, the earth transmuting my troubles with its tender indifference. The wind has picked the sorrows from my hair, one at a time, and blown them like dandelion seeds into the air, whispering, make a wish. I have lain in the meadow, letting the sun beat the regret out of me, like water pummeling a stone until it’s smooth. Fed by the milky moon, as I lay under her fullness until I saw how everything is draped in iridescence, especially us. We have been trained out of seeing it. Just as we have been trained out of seeing that the sky and the earth and the forests are all part of us. No molecular distinction between my hand and yours, our separation like the lines between countries. When faced with the grandeur of your true beauty, don’t turn away, thinking, That couldn’t be me. When we don’t claim our light we get lost in the dark. I have tried to treat my brokenness like the Japanese art of kintsugi, mending vases with veins of gold— damage as history, honored, not concealed. I call my fragments back to me, like a vase shattering in reverse.
[image: Expansion by Paige Bradley (in Joshua Tree)]
Tai Woodville will be reading this and other poems from the same batch May 16th at Valentines – 7 pm.