It is done

You don’t know the story, but your body does
You don’t remember what happened to you then, but your cells hold remembrance.
Your task is this: allowing.

The cords are in my belly, knots in the stomach
close to the heart, raw rigid umbilical that threatens to choke
these same cords you threatened to end yourself with
when I didn’t love you enough.
The cords weaved on an old piano, breaking silence so you can hear me
the same cords pulled by wrong lovers to move me into place like a marionette
the cords in my larynx tightening when I open this mouth to speak
the cords that tie me to the Moon from fingertips, tips of my hair
up up.

And it makes sense that
my belly is heavy with longing. It’s a place I can’t be in for long
or love it hard enough.
You have taken root in there, tying yourself up inside me
sucking nourishment. I am your mother feeding you
I am you, womb-shaped;
I am your lover nursing you back to life.
My body’s all knotted up because of you

well it has been but now
unwinding

unwinding like a grandmother spinning wool, turning wheels
each tissue unwinds, a cauldron stirring
the dizzying dancing Sufi
a god spinning love into our connective tissue.

You both took residence in Me, the only place you found love for each other
a common ground, entangling me in your story
the only way, holding on to me, your lifeline
breathing, living.

I shake you off,
you un-peel and drop like old skin.
And in the places that held you, places indented with your shape
there is now a new love filling.

I am no longer a vessel for your being.
And I love you from a full place, with a whole body that is mine
and mine alone.

I ask
can you love even what has hurt you?
Can you love everything you touch and see, and even this
can you love what is dark also?

I twist you out of me
circle the wrists, mouth opens
I am free.