I simply always forget
and take for granted
that this sweet liberty
that I dance around within
isn't shared by all.
Now, I am not speaking of your neon-lit, grocery store aisle lane
nor am I referring to a quick sound bite about a nationalistic pride.
Rather, I am talking about the freedom to bee me - to let my feminine form
expand and contract, without guilt or shame; to enjoy every tasty morsel of food,
no matter its calorie count or grams of fat; to run and twirl, to exclaim and fart;
to sink into another's arms and rejoice in healing touch.
I am typing of a liberation that can not bee given nor ever taken away.
It's mine to claim - just like the air I breathe and this heart that beats.
It's a raucous celebration that, even in the midst of life's powerful ups and downs,
reveres this Yoni, and swings these hips. It's a reclamation to allow my own fluids
a release - without holding back and without holding in.
It's a rememberance that, like our great Pacific Ocean, and that waxing and waning Moon,
we too ebb and surge, flow and still.
It's power so natural, so second-thought, I have to
stop
and pause
before another mirror.
Jarringly knocked out of my regular reverie as I listen to the horror of others:
how they'd rather stay covered up;
how she doesn't have a relationship with her own life-giving breasts;
how he is so exhausted from chasing after ideals that just aren't human.
How she hates her body, her Self.
How he doesn't beelieve, deep down, that he is lovable.
How hurt and freightened,
scared and grief-stricken, we all are.
And I re-member
what I came here for.
