One Flower Said to Another

I am trying to write something from my belly, but I'm not coming up with anything.

Yesterday, in Marie Howe's class, we were talking about how writing is like singing, and something should be allowed to speak through us.

I started crying because I wanted more of this. I took off my glasses.

Shannon, tell us what you're feeling, she said.

I was just thinking about having things speak through us. Maybe we have to empty out. Our ego.

I cried because I want more. Or maybe it was someone tipping their hat and saying, OK.

OK. Walk barefoot. Look silly.

OK. Let your body feel like a million stones lift you. If the sky wanted you, it would ask.

So, I told myself to feel loved.

I was standing in an archway, waiting for a meeting. The sun was on my face. Then it wasn't.

The impulse to kneel and chew on the grass. I mean bite. Chomp.

When I was younger, I'd bath my horse with a hose then let her graze. When I'd place my face to her body, that was praying, too.

Now, I have the memory but nothing solid.

To fill in gaps, I study someone's eyes, nose pushed close to theirs.

Thinking we're two eyelashes, or flowers, side by side.

You're God, too, I said.

You make me want to believe you, they said.

I thought I was too small to become the sky.

So I told myself to feel loved.

OK. Feel yourself in particles, one flower said to another. But it will hurt, loving God that way.