Memorial Day, 2019, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

Memorial Day, 2019

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

I had an uncle who fought in WW II, and he was never the same mentally. He was an extremely talented writer, and his PTSD from the war destroyed the rest of his life. It’s people like him I honor–and all the military people of color throughout history, and the indigenous people, who fought for rights they still don’t experience, who fought with little to no recognition, who fought and were betrayed by the very country they were fighting for.

I think especially today about my transsiblings who have lost their careers in the military–their years and decades of service–all because of trump and his religious extremist terrorist regime.

I have met homeless vets on the streets of Philly, in soup kitchens, when I’ve visited homeless shelters to sing–these people are in shock–not only because of the things they’ve witnessed, done, felt–but because of the way their country let them down once they returned.

These people and the trans service members are not just expendable pieces–nor were the people of color who served in the military….We all know that—but let’s not kid ourselves that this country really cares about the actual human beings fighting these horrific and most often unjust wars—If they cared they wouldn’t be so actively fighting to take away the rights of people like me—slapping the sacrifices soldiers have made to protect my rights and the civil rights of all people–in the face….only to watch their country erode into a cesspool of hate, bigotry, and a way of thinking that is so backwards mentally, spiritually, socially, that it’s difficult to see a way out.

You know I’m a pacifist at heart/soul, but a revolution might be what’s needed to change the shit going on in this country–and for those future veterans—the marginalized ones who will fight, who do fight everyday—-it will just be a continuation of daily battles.

And yeah, it pisses people off to hear comparisons of transpeople with military members–as far as us being “heroes.” –but the truth is, transpeople like me fight a war to exist every day–and that doesn’t make us heroic, it makes us victims in a battle we did not choose. We shouldn’t need to be called heroes just because we’re trying to live our lives in safety. I don’t believe the ghosts of the soldiers who fought for American freedom would be happy to know genocide is happening right on our very soil—-again–it’s never actually stopped.

Going out anywhere–to church, the store, to the post office, to any public restroom–is putting myself at risk. I am constantly hyper vigilant of my surroundings and those around me—why? Because my life IS a war zone. If people weren’t so scared of people like my why would trump and his weaklings want us gone so badly? So sometimes the comparisons are worthy to make between veterans and queer people like me.

And it’s not only queer people–people of color are at war in this country–young black men just picking up trash are veterans of living a life of war everyday—putting themselves in danger just because they wear a hoodie, Islamic people just trying to worship, to make a living–they are at war in this country–Jewish people, Latinx people….people in jail whose lives are completely destroyed for selling/using weed….Marginalized people–each and everyone of us is a veteran of wars we fight everyday because we are the hunted.

I am not saying I want to draw attention away from military vets–Far from it. I want us all to rise up and actually fight for what they fought for—a country free to all and for the rights of all. And as long as white-supremacist colonization and brutality is still going on there will never be peace. We will always be fighting.

To those who fight overseas, and to those who fight getting out of bed, to those that fight leaving their homes because of fears for their own safety, for those that fight who have no home—I honor all of you this day, and I will, as always, keep praying for peace, and keep fighting in the ways I am able.

 

 

 


Ghosts of Spring, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Ghosts of Spring

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

The spring breeze haunts me,

Every flower calls my name,

Winter holds me fast.

 

 

The ghosts in the spring

Flow through the weeping cherries,

Then fall to the ground.

 

 

I saw the ghost child

Wandering through the garden

Wishing it was fall.

 

 

Spring ghosts whispering;

The dogwoods acknowledge their voice

Weeping white petals.

 

The dead follow close,

The daffodils bow their heads,

Blessing as we pass.

 

 

Dearest magnolia,

How can it be you are there,

Fancying up the sky?

 

 

Spring wind chases by,

Stirring my hair as it goes,

Leaving me behind.

 

 

Someone mows a lawn,

The sound drifts through the window,

Melting through my mind.

 

 

Children’s spring laughter

Fluttering through the window,

Waking up the ghosts.

 

 

Rain-scented pavement

Permeates my feeling life,

Understands the tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 


No Matter What, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

No Matter What

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

At some point or another

One of these poems will be my last.

Whichever season it lands in

Holds a key, or, better said—

A gesture as to how it will unfold

Into your life.  No matter what

 

Wind will be blowing outside,

Roots will expand and contract,

Night will come, and the moon will be phasing

Behind the clouds, and blue screen lights

Will dim under your hands,

 

And floor boards will creak beneath

Your feet as you step into another room—

Thinking: What was being said between the lines?

Where does it all lead anyway?

Will we meet there? What will she look like?

Will there be a river and cherry blossoms?

Will there be angels, and, if so,

Will they be silent or singing?

 

 

 

 


Silly Geese and Momma Bears: A Playful Look at So-Called Gender Differences, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

Silly Geese and Momma Bears:

A Playful Look at So-Called Gender Differences

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

The following is a light-hearted (yet with deadly serious ramifications—especially in today’s world) look at the fallacy of so-called gender identifiers and the even more illusionary “characteristics” of gender as perceived by people (henceforth referred to as Silly Goose, or SGM for “males;” SGF’s for Silly Goose “females,” (sorry to use the tired binary system—it’s just for the sake of this post); and I will refer to them collectively, as Silly Geese, or SG, for short) who

1). Believe there are only two genders— “male” and “female,”

2). Believe that the only two genders are “opposite,”

3). Believe the two genders can ultimately be defined by genitals and personality traits.

 

It should be pointed out at the onset that I too am a Silly Goose Female, but of a much more pleasant, fabulous, and glittery variety.

Some of what is said in this little romp are actual statements people have made to me (henceforth referred to as Fabulous Unicorn Glitter Rainbow Queen, or FUGRQ for short) while trying to disprove my existence a transwoman.

Please note: any information herein is meant to be humorously educational and if it offends may you be nibbled to death by gazelles.  And now back to the exchange.

 

SGF: How do you know you’re female?

FUGRQ: How so you know you’re female?

SGF: I asked you first.

FURGQ: And the first shall be last.  We’ll get to my answer later.

SGF: There are clear-God-ordained differences between males and females.

FUGRQ: That’s an opinion, but back to my question.

 

[Please note I am not going to use quotation marks around words like, “male,” “female,”” tough,” or “womanly,” for the remainder of this post. I realize I just did, but that was purely for example’s sake. The overuse of quotation marks dampens their otherwise enormous powers of making sure you understand what I “actually” mean.  I have the fullest confidence that your brain will automatically insert quotation marks around the words that need them, thus saving me from having to hit “shift,” before hitting the quotation mark key. Damn.]

 

SGF: Well, I just feel…womanly.

FUGRQ: OK.  What does feeling womanly feel like?

SGF: It feels…feminine.

FUGRQ: What does feeling feminine feel like?

SGF: Well, I feel nurturing as a female.

FUGRQ: Have you ever met, seen, or interacted with a nurturing male?

SGF: Um…. yes, I suppose.

FUGRQ: Then the quality of being nurturing is a genderless quality?

SGF: Well, female nurturing is softer and gentler.

FUGRQ: Ever heard of Mr. Rogers? Or, Bob Ross, or, say: Jimmy Stewart?

SGF: There are exceptions, yes.

FUGRQ: Those exceptions are actually proof that being nurturing is a genderless quality, and thus cannot define gender.  Give me another example.

SGF: Females are more emotional than males, they cry more easily.

FURGQ: Ever heard of Cal Ripken, Lou Gehrig, Jon Stewart, Abraham Lincoln?  They all cried, as did many a Philadelphia male when the Eagles won the Superbowl.

SGF: As I said, there are exceptions—some males are more sensitive than others.

FURGQ: Those exceptions are actually proof that being emotional, or crying easily, is a genderless quality and thus cannot define gender.

 

Here is a conversation between an SGM and myself:

 

SGM: How do you know you’re female?

FUGRQ: How do you know you’re male? What is your inner experience of that like?

SGM: Well, I feel…masculine.

FUGRQ: What does that feel like?

SGM [puffing out chest]: Well, I feel manly.

FUGRQ: OK, what does that feel like?

SGM: [unable to keep chest puffed out more than a few seconds, it sinks back to regular chest settings]: Well, I’m a protector of children.

FUGRQ: Ever heard how mother bears protect her cubs, or how Sojourner Truth or Mother Theresa protected children, or how Pink protects her children?

SGM: Well, there are exceptions to the rule.

FUGRQ: Rule?  You’ve just seen that being protective is a genderless quality.

SGM: Well, I know I’m male because I’m tough. [SG puffs out chest again.]

FURGQ: Well, what about the aforementioned mother bear, or the likes of Kathrine Switzer, Venus and Serena Williams, Rosa Parks?

SGM: As I said, there are exceptions to the rule [chest sinks back in].

FURGQ: It boils down to toughness—physically and mentally—is a genderless quality, and therefore cannot define gender.

SGM: Whatever.

FURGQ: So then, what is the actual difference between males and females?

SG: Here’s proof of the difference between males and females you can’t dispute—males have a penis and release sperm and woman have a vagina and release eggs.

FURGQ: So, it comes down to body parts?

SG: Yes.  You can’t deny that one.

FURGQ: What about sterile males and infertile females are they still males and females?

SG: Those are disorders.

FURGQ: But you still consider them as defining characteristics of male and female?

SG: Yes, of course.

FURGQ: So, then, ultimately bodily functions can’t define gender. What about intersex people or the so-called-not-really-used-anymore-word: hermaphrodites?

SG: Again, there are exceptions that are considered disorders.

FURGQ: Hmm. What if a male loses his penis in a horrible accident or a woman has her vulva damaged in some way? Is the male still male or the female still female?

SG: Yes, because accidents happen.

FURGQ: I’ll give you that both sperm and egg are required to make little humans, but those ingredients can produce both little male and females, isn’t that interesting? And just because sperm come from one type of body and eggs from another doesn’t actually make two genders—it makes differently made bodies.  Both have arms, legs, eyeballs, ears, toes, and so on.  You’re saying the ONLY body parts that define males and females are genitals and their bodily functions?

SG [smugly]: Yes, that’s the truth.

FURGQ: OK, well, we’ve seen that either body can have different genitals, so, when it comes down to it, bodies don’t explain the inner experience or the feeling of being male or female. Despite bodily varieties there is no actual way to define what it feels like to be male or female.

SG: Yes, that’s what we’re saying.  We just KNOW.

FURGQ: And so, you go around KNOWING you’re males and females because you’re constantly—so-to-speak—feeling your genitals?

SG [looking at one another then turning back to me]: No, not necessarily.

FURGQ: So, genitals do not make you experience on a soul-level-a consciousness level, that you’re male or female?

SG: We suppose not, but still…

FURGQ: Still what?

SG: Feelings and inner experiences are subjective and not necessarily true.

FURGQ: Really, so your inner experiences don’t count either?

SG: Well, it’s in the Bible.

FURGQ: Ah, I wondered when that book would eek into the conversation. There’s no way for me to really argue with people who believe that one book—out of the gazillion books ever written—is the whole truth and nothing but the truth despite science, and verses like Isiah 53: 3-5 where God says eunuchs shall be given names greater than men or woman? Or how Jesus treated everyone as if their gender didn’t matter in the least?

SG: Never heard of the Isiah passage.

FURGQ: Ah.  What about Jeremiah 1:5?  If you deny an infinite variety of bodies exist, then God must make mistakes.  You must believe people born blind or short or tall or deaf are mistakes.

SG: God doesn’t make mistakes.  People born handicapped are due to human genetic abnormalities.

FURGQ: I prefer the term, “differently born,” because that includes everyone—since we’re all born with different bodies.  But aren’t those genetic issues ordained by Divine Providence?

SG: Now we’re getting into theological debate, and there’s no sense in that.

FURGQ: Agreed. Disputing the Bible’s so-called infallibility is futile, not because it’s right, but because your minds are indoctrinated with what you believe to be true, and everyone knows that beliefs aren’t facts.

SG: The Bible is God’s actual word.

FURGQ: As I said, there’s no way I can argue with your ingrained beliefs, I shouldn’t have tried, so let’s return to the human body, which you so ardently believe defines a particular gender.

SG: OK.  Let’s.  Everyone knows females don’t have facial hair or deep voices or adam’s apples.

FURGQ: On the contrary , there are females with beards and facial hair of varying amounts, plus most other mammals, like the afore-aforementioned bear–no-matter what genitals it is born with–have hair (well, fur).  So then, body hair is a genderless quality and can’t define gender.  And by the way, I wouldn’t go around asking bears to spread their legs so you can think you’ve decided what gender they are based on what you find.

SG: OK, fine, but what about the male’s deep voices or adam’s apples?

FURGQ: What about Mae West, Kathleen Turner, Angelina Jolie? They have deep voices.

SG: There are exceptions too.

FURGQ: At the end of the day, the sound and timber of someone’s voice does not define male and female. And as far as the adam’s apple, anyone can have one.  Just because some bodies have bigger ones than others doesn’t make theirs’ male and the other female. Sandra Bullock, Meg Ryan, and Halle Berry can all be said to have large adam’s apples.

SG: Well, females can nurse babies and men can’t.

FURGQ: We’ve already seen that body parts do not define gender itself—they may be associated with bodily functions and made-made words—but those words and functions referring to various body parts don’t define gender.  It’s what’s inside that counts—the inner experience or feeling of being the gender you know yourself to be.  So, I will ask my original question: What is your inner experience of being a particular gender—not reliant on the outer forms of the body?  What does it feel like to be who you are?

SG: We just know, that’s all.  We just know.

FURGQ: And that’s my answer to your original question. I told you we’d get to it eventually.

SG: Whatever.  We won this little debate [the SG’s walk away with their chests puffed out and their chins pointed high].

“Love your neighbor as yourself,” I call out as they strut away, but they are too far out of range to hear, which would be the case no matter the distance from where we stood.

 

 

                                     

 

 


 


 

 

 

 

 

 


Pockets of Possibility, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

Pockets of Possibility

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Expand into this

Moment, like

Sunrise into day,

Like green shoots

From dark husks,

Like yeast in bread,

Like movement

Through the dancer’s waking limbs,

Like motion in the resting

Curtains, like momentum

Into a good idea, like breath

From your whole body,

Like an octopus unfurling

From its dark lair.

Spread into this

Moment, like

A child’s fingers opening

Into your hand–

To guide you to touch the kitten’s fur,

To feel the lips of the goat nibbling feed,

To feel the weight of the fork

As it lifts from the cake,

To find the stone that acts like

A talisman in the pockets

Of possibility.

 

 

 

 

 

 


 



Ocean of Praise, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

Ocean of Praise

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

It is my hope you’ve seen

Water carrying light,

Reflect on walls, ceilings, trees—

The way it dances, shimmers, like

A visible breeze rippling

Through curtains in spring,

Easing the eyes and spirit.

You know your body is

Made of water.  Think of that–

Water is in your every cell,

Carrying light, reflecting inside

On every part of you, like

A bowl filled with wonder, like

A temple touched with fingers

Of reverence, like your prayers

On an ocean of praise.

 

 

 

 


 




Souls Alive, A Little Story about The Purpose of Life, Chickens, Dragons, and Dark Chocolate, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

Souls Alive

A Little Story about The Purpose of Life, Chickens, Dragons, and Dark Chocolate

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Chapter One: The Ending

 

My parents were dead before I was born, and so was I.  Hate to break it to you, but it’s the same for you too, dear reader.  It’s the same for all of us.  Thing is, it’s a fact that’s hard to remember.  Once we infuse ourselves into a body, we’re already so delighted over the sparkling journey, that our so-called-past-becomes a distant, nearly fully unconscious memory.  I say, “so-called past,” because, as the chickens tell us—there is no true beginning or end.  The debate as to which who came first, is like arguing over which is better—dark chocolate Oreos or dark chocolate nonpareils—silly.

At any rate, let’s get back to me.  As I mentioned a paragraph ago, my parents were dead before I was born, and so was I.  Hate to break it to you, but it’s the same for—-oh, sorry, said that already.  I’m trying to focus, please be patient with me.  It’s not easy to be a ghost and keep your focus.  Think of it—everything is radiantly timeless and sugary like cotton candy, and so it’s hard to remain focused on whatever is in front of you—not to mention the fact that you can pass your hands through everything you touch and that’s pretty cool, but nevertheless annoying.

I should probably define what a ghost actually is.  It’s not what most people think.  According to the Online Etymology Dictionary (which remains my favorite website after all these centuries) in the original Old English, the word, “ghost,” was, “gast,” which meant, among other things, “breath; angel, demon; person, human being.”  The fact that the word has devolved over the centuries to simply mean the spirit of a dead person, is a travesty.  Most words today are devolutions of much richer, more wondrous meanings, and, as time goes by (which is really a very profane expression, since time doesn’t “go-by,” but more on that later—which is another word related to time that also baffles me), the human mind became less able to hold all these various meanings in one mind (which is, as you guessed it–the idea of “one mind”–a silly idea as well) and thus the intricate complexities of all words distill down to definitions that any old human intellect can tackle.

It’s entirely possible you might be thinking that I’m attempting to avoid relating the actual story I started out to tell—the one about my parents and I being dead before we were born—and you wouldn’t be completely wrong.  You see, it is a challenging story for me to both recall and to tell.  It brings to surface, like an underground lake suddenly seeping across the land, many painful experiences that must, of necessity, be brought to light.  Not the least of which involves a hungry (but vastly misunderstood) dragon, the challenging descriptions of incarnating, and the hot-button-topic-of gender identity—sure to rankle the feathers of many small-minded fundamentalists.

All that said, let’s jump into the vegetarian meat of the story:  My parents were dead before I was born, and so was I.  Now, as I eluded to earlier—any word that is used in reference to time— “before,” “earlier, “after,” and so on, are really misnomers, and highly inaccurate and misleading.  For the sake of you, dear reader, we will stick to the conventional, human terms for time.  This is not to say you are incapable of grasping such concepts, it is more to say—your heart can, your soul can, your spirit can—but your mind—well, your mind will get all tangled in philosophical debating and you wouldn’t be able to enjoy the yarn I am spinning—or, at very least, about to spin.  The broader, more cosmic definitions of “time” are going to be left for another, non-existent day.

Take a breath, dear reader, cause here we go.

 

Chapter Two: The Beginning

 

 

 

 

 


Musings on Prayers and Kisses, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

Musings on Prayers and Kisses

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Trying to pray with your eyes open is like trying to walk with your eyes closed. One distracts you, the other confuses you, but the end result is the same—clumsiness.  Trying to kiss with your eyes open is more an act of will and wide-eyed-giggling than it is: “I must see where my face is going.” Lips know.  The soul knows. The feet do not without aid of the eyes.  Then again, it must be considered not all prayers are the same, just as not all kisses are the same. And I must say at the beginning, I am musing along with you as I write these words.  The ideas herein are like the aforementioned legs without eyes to guide them.  I do have certain experience, albeit limited, with both kissing and praying, but I am roaming these topics of heaven-given moments with as much anticipation as you to see where they lead.

One can kiss a lover, friend, or a child “Good morning—have a good day”—with eyes open (perhaps, however, while staring at the coffee maker or the clock).  One can kiss a lover with eyes open—wild, seeing everything—following the other’s eyes like search lights, but that’s usually at first contact—when clothes are dropping off ready bodies, like swollen seed-husks falling from blossoming flowers. Eventually the eyes close and you both connect, like living magnets, and both exhale–surrendering into that intimate vulnerability of having someone ornament your body with decorating kisses. We have an interesting distinction here: eyes open during the initial flurry of passion, then eyes close when things settle in a pulsing rhythm of bodies, and the feast of lips tasting lips.  Then, one begins exploring the other’s body with kisses as the other’s eyes close in deep, rising and sinking sighs.  And when the lips find the places where rapture happens both lovers’ eyes close. That being said, it’s not uncommon for the one receiving to have their eyes fly open with: “Oh God! Oh God!”  When the sweet release comes, and the waves shimmer through the body, the eyes most often close like the deepest, most calming, evening.  And when the lovers switch places, the process unfolds, with any luck, the same way.

Prayer is very much the same, only different.  So is singing, but that’s another essay.  In praying, as in nighttime prayers (that often slip so easily into sleep), the eyes close to shroud the whispers that kiss the dark.  Morning prayers too are most often said with eyes closed, head bowed before the body of the day. Of course, there are those prayers where the whole body participates, as when the sea rolls through your body during love making.  Dancing prayers, yogic prayers, walking prayers, making coffee for your partner prayers—these are all eyes-open prayers—even if your eyes are drooping with not enough sleep. There are vigil prayers when candles are meditated upon, and lives gone are reflected upon, and hopes for peace rise to the sky. During vespers, the eyes can be open or closed, as the prayers wish for safe sleep and warmth.  Then, there are prayers we pray for someone else—someone sick or struggling through a rough patch—these prayers are almost always asked with eyes closed in supplication and intensity, as when we humbly, or boldly ask a lover to kiss us in the places we want kissed.  There are prayers of wonder, as when we see stars and newborn babies and sunsets and moon rises.  These are prayed with gasps and awes, as when your lover’s lips find the tingling places on your body—eyes suddenly open with surprise and reverence.  There are rote prayers where the eyes automatically close because everyone else’s automatically close and if you sneak your eyes open and scan the room full of closed-eyed people you feel a sprinkle mischievous and a dash voyeuristic, and perhaps a pinch of outright rebel.  These are moments akin to opening one eye during a kiss to catch the reaction of your lover.  Both are perfectly acceptable, of course, for they inspire the fun of witnessing community and union, provided the eyes aren’t opening in either case with insecurity to check whether or not you’re kissing well or praying with the proper piety. Hopefully, however, there are very few rote kisses in your lives. There are prayers of prophecy—spontaneous and unplanned like wild, ravishing kisses predicting soon to come release. Your eyes are always open during these prayers while your lover’s are usually closed with faith and the sweet, blessed, little fear that sometimes accompanies letting go to the control of another. There are also the prayers of grace and blessings before a meal, which can easily be translated into prayers of gratitude before feasting at the table of your lover’s body. Lastly, there are prayers of ecstasy, when your eyes close seeing lights and visions, and the soul stirs awake and bliss shimmers through your entire body, and exclamations of: “Oh God, Oh God!” soar around the room.  We don’t have to imagine too hard to know which kisses these are like and where they settle and deepen and what the eyes do when such rapture happens.

Well, there we have it.  I truly had no idea where this was going.  Now that we’re drawing to a close (or a curious, intriguing opening) it is my hope this meandering piece inspires you to kiss more reverently and to pray with more wildness; to kiss with more attention and devotion, and to pray with more openness to revelation; to kiss more adventurously and to pray more like the trees must pray, like the sea must pray, like the shore must pray, like a hawk gliding on spiraling currents must pray, like the mother bear awakening with cubs must pray, like the owl must pray keeping watch over fields and marshes.  In other words, may our prayers and kisses become one and the same, where Lover and Beloved become one and the same–one breath, one sparkling river, one song of praise.

 

     

 

 


 




Inside the Inside, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

Inside the Inside

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Inside the inside

Of her breath,

Where songs live,

And praise,

 

There is a space—

Round as the cup

Of a nightingale’s nest,

Hidden by a thicket,

Wing covered,

 

Where she lives—

This little one—

Holding the uncorruptable songs,

The unmolestable poems—

Inside, like water roots

Of lilies,

 

She sits, tracing spirals

In the sand, watched over

By Euterpe and Thalia,

Terpsichore and Polyhymnia,

 

They cannot keep her

From being invaded,

From years of her life

Being stolen,

From her innocence

Being crushed by night

Predators and shadow-

Dappled afternoon monsters,

Though they try with all

Their might to stand

Bracing against the door.

 

What they can do

Is protect the breath

Inside her breath,

Where songs live,

And praise, where poems

Sleep, like nightingale’s eggs,

Where drawings manifest, like

Treasure maps,

Where dances unfurl, like

Galaxies, where music flows, like

Ribbons and rivers,

Where rhythm lives, like

The wing-beats of every

Rising phoenix. That

They can do.  And will

Continue to do until she walks

With them to the seaside,

And points towards home.

 

 

 

 

 


 





This Body is Meant for More, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

This Body is Meant for More

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

 

It is necessary to dance,

In one form or another,

Even for a moment, alone,

Without judgment, or, at very least,

As little judgment as possible.

 

Dance over to the coffee pot,

Dance to the door, through the room,

To bed.

 

This body is meant for more

Than very nearly robotic, albeit

Necessary movements.

 

It is meant to unfold—fluid, grand,

Dramatic, slowly, curling downwards,

Rising upwards—arms outstretched–

Gathering and releasing a sky

Of a million suns.