by Brie Huling
Everything you’ve been carrying
is not actually part of your body.
All these choices have attached
themselves like timeworn crust,
old skin tags in awkward world.
Run the moon-comb through
your messy hair, untangle
all the images from a simmering
wish they could login to watch.
Set your grief down gently
in the shadowy cave, petroglyphs
saving stories so you can unremember.
Four-legged wobblers near the lake
exploring gravity for the first time,
a gentle reminder of your own rickety start.
Look up at the sky and see
holes punched wild to let the moonlight
in. Forgive yourself for everything.