throat then tongue
My writing from Weeks 7 & 8 of The Visceral Self
a sound escapes me my throat aches with unspoken things berries red and poisonous hung on branches eaten only by birds in the winter blood spatters on the snow each song stolen from the strings of my throat. understanding now how the key of my music is spread within me a wandering ghost an electric venation branching tributaries I used to think estuaries were where all the birds lived but here, on the wide open prairie, the air is alive with their calls Each sparrow a small mosaic the subtly painted greys and blues of thrushes and juncos. how does such bright-beaked loudness come forth from a tiny syrinx? each stuttering from my throat a metallic twang I am learning to love the possibility in this after years of languor and roughness years of leaden and purpled feet my blood in the estuary of my lungs learning to breathe easily again allowing my hands to dance winged along my hollowing bones my fingers speak what my throat cannot its tangled nest an architecture I can wonder at place each tone in its down lining a red jewel
the lilacs were heavy I walk carefully barefoot from back door to lilac tree each step uneven and tentative my tender winter skin on pinecones the lilacs draw me in each inflorescence weighs branches down the scent of purple so heavy in the air a floral taste sugared on my tongue not the radish spice of nasturtium or the sweetness of rose I pay for each step in fatigue grow heavier as the day moves past dawn to late sunset my tongue the first sense of enoughness sparks in my mouth each papillae blooming purple ache of speech and feeding a shift from liquid ease to silted feet I drop my diaphragm inhale lilacs my budding tongue atingle I turn back towards our azure door earth-caked soles heavy hands scent of lilac following my slow walk across prickling lawn cement step then cool smooth vinyl the couch draws me in I drop my body each cushion sunk under weighty limbs exhale my anvil tongue to know my body's limits as a scent on the wind before it cloys and nauseates to run my fingers through my hair and find a lilac blossom
You can read my previous writing from The Visceral Self writing intensive with Jeannine Ouellette here:
Kimberly stole my thoughts - the heaviness and the lightness contrasting in this - oof. Beautiful.
So moving Lia. I can feel the weight and weightlessness in your words, the inevitable, unending tension of a body tethered to chronic illness. Your words reach outwards and then back onwards to cradle your experience.
And that cross stitch is superb too. I experience paresthesia on my tongue too, feels exactly as you’ve stitched it!