• Michaela

The Stair

The mirror at the foot of the bed catches my reflection My hair is too short to be beautiful My eyes too small to see holiness I am not pretty enough Not thin enough Neither elegant nor wise enough To be important, to succeed, To be whole. I stumble over these thoughts Tripping along the road carved by their whisper Walking by rote But what happens when I stop? When I look up steep canyon walls See harsh stone and how I have been Wearing away at the landscape of my self Until I am hidden in the dusk of deep valleys Narrow with habit? Suddenly, longing, I take my hands I begin to carve A stair, another, another! And when I can no longer reach, I climb Eking out the next step, And the next, Reaching, desperate, scrabbling like some Demented spider suspended higher than I remembered I had been The light increases My bleeding fingers find roots Growing all along while I was walking I climb, weaving through the net of them and Thinking of leaves, of rain falling on leaves, Of tears on my cheeks Of being soft and clean as earth Of flowers bursting from my shoulders A river streaming from my breast down To the ocean 'twixt my thighs where it reflects the moon Held in my feet Where the stars tickle and I tumble onto grass, lying on my back Enough in all of this

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