I can only read her in small doses of light
Because when i do she stirs up, she stirs,
Her words penetrate the muscles between my chest,
My pectorals squeeze, my solar plexus caves
Into my diaphragm, landing somewhere, Leaving me gasping for air, like a soft punch in the gut one feels days after the knuckles have left, leaving a bruise on the soul, or uncovering one already there?
Penetrating with a surgeon’s precision
Cutting, opening, revealing
The deep of soul where feelings feel,
Where pain persists, where joy resides,
Where secret rivers seek to roll through ducts of tearless eyes, so dry,
A turbulence of wind through the windows of inebriation sans alcool,
A stirring to write,
A stirring moved.
Handcrafted poetry reflection while reading American Primitive by Mary Oliver, April, 2017