by Sherry Peterson
The Mountain opened her knees…bared craggy thighs…birthed boulders
full of sweet words not to be spoken except by wind rain…hail…snow…thunder…crack of lightning
Mouth…a precipice exposed hurling clear cold water
spilling spilling spilling down her neck…between breasts…across her belly
creating rainbow falls
spiraling with sound disappearing in the mist
“Bare yourself” she whispered, “be naked here”
where sun reaches golden fingers savoring the touch of trees…the moss…the licorice fern
Autumn air caressing cooling my scorched summer skin boiling tears
“Shhhhh” the falling leaves whispered, “shed shirt bra jeans underwear socks shoes
fold into the weight of air”
Undressing, bending at my waist dropping my hands–letting go
Ahhhhhhh
Now–examine the valleys between your toes
press your fingers in where toe meets foot–rub
move the palms of your hands across your soles
up your heels rough as tree bark, over rounded ankles
feel the weight of all you’ve carried
move up your legs
trace your veins bluer than the sky… bluer than tributaries, rivers, lakes
map calves forested with follicles and fur
examine knees that brought you here…bone on bone sparking smoldering fire in your joints
you have walked the equivalent of the Pacific Crest Trail how many times
without a voice…listening to others
Caress your thighs like a long-lost lover ponder each lump of cellulite until you reach
the forest of desire once consuming you with flame of longing mistaken as the only way to love
Unfolding–spread open hands across your hips
feel the strength of cradle bones hard beneath excess flesh
linger at the roundness of your wombless belly grown soft with too much grief
Reach around…massage each vertebrae until you find the place your wings attached
the aching there
drop shoulders…drop head…lift your arms wide…remember how you flew
Massage your breasts now empty of mother’s milk
move up around across your chest
every…single…secret trapped there rattling bones…heart…lungs
Now reach your throat, both hands holding it
a mysterious vessel
Make whatever sound comes to you
the birth of your voice
Sherry Peterson has been working on her memoir for the past 30+ years. Someday it will be finished.