I have a secret in my pocket but I cannot share its name.
It’d be the breast pocket but I prefer v-necks and denim, so right buttcheek it is.
But yes…it’d be right over the breast, over the chest, over the rest. My heart.
The smooth weight of this secret. A grooved fate.
I feel it there when I’m staring out at water that is far too vast and deep and patient for my small body and fledgling mind to comprehend.
Please, secret, remind me to breathe towards a non-culmination and be okay with that lack of finality.
Sweet secret, gentle nudges towards blissful acceptance will help me, help me more than the hard-bodied self-catapulting tactics of my alternatingly eager and meager drive to Know. For sure. The resulting bruises of Impossible seep darkly, in rusted blueberry, and fade quickly. And despite enjoying the cool recession to calmer waters, I slam myself, over and over, against that cliff face, wishing I were a fish that flew. How terrifyingly free it would be to skip across the wave peaks, circumnavigating the fleshier folds and crevices with Lightness.
My secret recognizes this compulsion.
When I was littler I had a fever that raged in my pupils and palms.
The fans placed around me beat at the air in a pulsing rhythm that harkened not to the rooty campfire of those first primal congregations, but a detached and ominous algorithm, stoic and not at all concerned with my fitful quaking.
I was a grain of prehistoric dust, enmeshed in the seemingly dead lattice of a glacier.
Ice and silence pounded at my field of vision and I feared that I would become the static of the radio, the blue blipping buzz of the TV. Succumb to the siren of Time, jailed in Forever.
My solace was my own pulse, an assurance that Life, and Breath, were the only real measures. The façade of looming Nothingness melted away, creaking under the weight of my sudden confidence. “Ground thyself!”, Ancient I told Child Me, and where friends saw only morbid mystery, I became fascinated with my blood, my tissue, my heart.
There, now, I keep this secret. I cannot share its name, but it soothes. As honey drizzles on a homemade loaf, kneaded lovingly by hands with cracked cuticles.
I cannot share its name, but it sparks a thread of molten awareness. As brightness glimmers in stones made wetter.
I cannot share its name, as your chin settles into my clavicle, the mortar and pestle of some divine molecular design.