The embodiment of words

Most of my good ideas happen when I’m trying to fall asleep.
I think I’ll remember, the notebook is too far away,
but in the morning they’re lost,
like a big shell pulled into the sea
by a small wave.

I didn’t think it could go that far.

But maybe these words aren’t gone, or lost.
They have to be in me
somewhere.
Like misplaced sunglasses on top of my head,
old stories stuck in hips.

I think what I wanted to write about
had something to do with oranges —
a whole book on its sweetness,
the strange texture of the peel
we rub on glasses and dunk in drinks.

Or maybe it was about my legs,
and the conversation we have daily:
how many miles?
My mind wanting one thing
and my muscles another,

as if they’re two separate beings in my body.

If I roll my neck enough times I’ll find
slight relief in my upper backbones,
just enough space to release
the story about sunrises, how every day is factually different
and yet I feel relatively the same.

It’s hard to pin transformations without aha moments.

The only one I’ve had I can remember is
there’s something important within a woman’s anger.
Oh, and another:
It’s not just a cliche that things need to
break

apart before they can rebuild better.
I scrape my quad every night with stone
and see the blood vessels burst.
The self-inflicted bruises, self-imposed micro-tears.
Miraculously, the bruises finally here

I have relief.

So maybe these stories
are all just in my body,
I embody language in different corners
sometimes they get stuck,
or hide.

Press thumb to index, middle, ring, and pinky.
Listen closely.

Crack an ankle, roll open a shoulder, feel the singe of the low belly.
Listen closely.

Walk in woods or on concrete or around the house and stare at your knees.
And listen.