At four my father’s foot taught me
love is necessarily painful
if it is valid, meaning
it passes from man to woman.

My mother taught me love is received
how to hold still
let it fill me up and when it burns
inside know love is cement
permanent
heavy, unshakeable, required
if we are to pass without leaving tracks.

You on the dance floor
you in my arms
your hands on my shoulders always gentle
throw me

I fall.
You catch me.
I no longer know
up from down.

Hammer to the heart sets off dust
the heavy falls away
I am breathing
or I am drowning
Water or air? Life or death?
So many little deaths
and frantic, labored draws.
Tracks on the bedsheets
tears on the pillowcase

your breasts on my back
your lips on my neck
I can’t be sure what’s happening
any given moment what I learned was love
does not exist this way -safe and warm

after twenty years forcing myself
in the bed of a man
I loved him
love him
but never wanted
nor the other women I’ve kissed
and whispered secrets with
intellect and body

Your tongue is euphoria.
This is risk.

I am still falling.
You are still catching me.
Every direction is up.
I have never been
so joyfully afraid.

~~~

I teach blogging, expressive writing for traumatic release and recovery and host generative writing sessions at the Center for Creative Writing. Write with me!