From Where I Come

Mudding for a sense of self
toes sifting and sinking
into turtle lands.

The land holds its breath in the heat and waters warm in an unsettling way. From here I scan horizons and borders – borders and hand drawn threads, sealed with blood – horizons born out of the personal wisdom of sorrow and darkness. All measures that matter now are internal.

I think I came from a hollowed out place – mom emptied from abuse and mental illness – dad reduced by responsibilities that were not his. The men were fliers and military. The women were stalwart and unflinching, unless they were raped and tried to kill themselves. Then, they were locked away and told to hush.

I need to go back further. My Irish eyes have roots so far down I have lost my fingernails digging to find them. From what land am I? What do its rocks and rivers and trees have to say? What I know is that the land was sculpted by sea and sorrow, yet it also bore healing and power. The water, be it river or lake or falls, carries one neither here nor there.

What is man-made ends. Get back to what lives and breathes. Swim the lough.

Hindsight is a strange dance partner but perhaps one step forward and two steps back gets one where she belongs.