The fourteen oleaginous sand jackets,
collected in over five hundred and forty-six
infirmed nights (with their days),
are now shrouding the sheets that cuddle my bones.
I will drill the stout layers into submission,
work them hard, and
sweat them off my back.
I will banish the sand jackets
and reclaim my seeable Self in thirteen weeks.
Fifteen moons ago, I promised
to do onto others… with my hands.
I will fulfill that oath,
with handmade words.
I will give fitting shapes to my thoughts
and pay them forward
in fewer than thirteen weeks.
There is a hollow space on the red wall of my heart,
awaiting a shelf made of urban driftwood,
to house a Wild child, two Crow girls and three Thorns.
I will build that shelf before thirteen weeks
have gone by.
It’s my birthday (well, it was yesterday). I can share a picture that has nothing to do with this poem if I want to. I do want to. So there. And no; I have no idea where the Little Princess picked up her fashionable sock style *cough*.