Cover image: Will Thompson | @wilbeurt
I find myself clinging still. Over and over over
dreaming that soft dream where i grow, to something
beautiful, become something hazy & wild.
The truth is/ I am not Curie, not Circe-
not Jean d’Arc, fierce & clever,
arm raised in her fever of revelation,
blinding sun like a holy crown
at her back.
But I can
make a living of these hands.
These gifts that i have been given so freely.
The kisses, each one like a blessing. The belief,
each truth given to me like a child. I am
to the bursting
all weed heart,
overgrown & loved.
I have no need of a paper immortality;
no need of scholars scrutinising the way
the bones of my little finger crooks in
a little too far.
I am no blesséd, but blessed enough.
I am no god, but holy enough.