33 Weeks

When I walk, the floor beneath me thunders,

Shuddering shelves bearing the plunder of my mind’s journeys,

Stacked and ordered,

Thousands of miles of words and thinking,

Rich in my being,

Rich in my brain –

            Jars of beans and pitchers of bamboo spoons and ladles

            Quiver on the fridge top, shake by the Kitchen Aid,

            Quake in their handles, and dish upon dish upon

            Stacked dish jingles – and jingles – and jingles,

Rich in my being, rich in my hands,

When I walk, the force of my bare feet thunders,

Bass drum wonder woman, forward and forward, I

Find in my being a being beyond

My brain and my hands, my thoughts and my willing, a

Being between the appearing and the perceiving;

When I squat, thigh strong, feet bare, soles down

To the ground, the giving ground I give

Sweet sweep and clean mop to,

To the ground that bears up as I bear down,

Breathe in,

Bring out,

My lungs,

My ribs;

My ribs,

Your feet –

Your clean pruney sweet soaking feet, you

Dancer in belly, my curve-back baby,

My strong sac fist-pitching

Being inside me,

We drink in the air – Here, baby! Here,

I give oceans of oxygen, strawberries, kale,

I give life, I give blood, I give long strong songs,

I give love, and rocking and squatting and singing,

I love you, I love you, and I love

The feet of the woman I’m becoming;

They go unafraid, and I thunder.