The bars started to angle in around 5th or 6th grade,

but it was age 13 when they slammed shut with a clang.

Worthy and Enough were the property of others.

Me, I was pitiful, a wretch, a pile of dirt.

No wonder I could barely deign to give myself a crust of bread

and a bowl of stagnant water.

It’s all the pathetic creature in the cage deserved,

I thought.

It was a long, slow climb out of the pit, but what I discovered,

as I clawed up the walls, was the better I fed her,

the more she felt she deserved it.

That’s how to feel enough.

[scs_alt]

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What went before,

what already was.

Pasted onto the past,

stapled to the walls

of your mind.

Unmovable

unchangeable.

Written on your body

in lines and scars

and aches and pains.

Or in triumph–

muscles that say

“I did that!” with pride.

Callouses on fingertips,

toes, heels.

Speed, dexterity,

born of hours of practice

already in the can.

A more flexible tongue,

piles of paintings,

a closet full of clothes,

all speaking of

what’s behind,

even while you dream

of what’s ahead.

[scs_alt]

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I used to believe

there was a right way,

and a wrong way,

a superior way,

and an inferior way

to do everything

that mattered.

Getting it right,

beng superior,

felt critically important

for reasons I can no longer

remember.

My teenaged self

would probably sneer at me

for giving up,

settling for good enough

when I could achieve

Olympic quality excellence.

What’s the point,

she’d say,

if you’re not at least

in the running

for a medal?

What can I say?

I have a lot more fun.

[scs_alt]

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Sitting on a bench in dappled sunlight,

stitching,

my needle drops off the end of my

heavy linen thread,

down to the grass below.

A momentary panic,

proverbial haystacks clouding my vision,

then reason prevails.

It’s a large needle,

there’s only a small section of lawn,

directly beneath me,

where it could be.

I kneel in the grass,

damp soaking into my pants,

peering into the forest of blades.

Between the green,

a ringed tube of earthy red,

glossy, moving.

A worm spelunking home.

[scs_alt]

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[scs_alt]

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