And in what places do I leave myself
blood river down my thighs
bleeding my way back to full attention.
I gather my legs back like two islands
detached from the mother land.
Where do I go when I’m not here?
I remember running,
that I can run yet chose to stay.
Still, here, now,
being nothing and no one
empty night
a slither of moon shifting from form to form.
One night
womb bleeding its grievances
I watch myself stare into the black ceiling
like a dead corpse.
What brings me back
is the first song of a gentle bird
breaking the night open into morning
gradual leaking of light into a dark room
song of resilience, blessings of being.
I hold myself in the morning song
tired and full of dawn.
The birds tell us secrets belonging to her. She is the voice that says, ‘This way, this way.’
Clarissa P. Estes
paraschivaflorescu.com 