The Next

I sit very still and count my breaths. 

       If there’s an angry god sitting

             in the unreachable chambers

                    of my chest

        I pay him no mind. 

There is a single thread connecting my toes

to the top of my head

It snaps back

the slouch of my spine, lifts my chin

        I sit very still. 

There are no thoughts here; I won’t allow it. 

No words; I am a single startle away 

from hell. I focus on the thread, 

how yesterday it flowed 

under my sister’s fingers 

as she stitched me a dress

for the harmattan. I focus on my sister

& my mother 

& all the millions of mothers

I’ve never met. 

I place my breath gently in my hands  

& hold it. Pretend I am both storm 

& anchor. Riotous yet unmoving—

this breath, and the next, and the next, 

if the hurricanes twirl around you, 

quickening your heart’s pace, if 

the hands on the clock’s face pin

down your wriggling body to this moment, 

        look away. 

concentrate on their faces

you must not ruin their lives. 

No. Don’t 

dream about resting, stay

awake, take

this breath, and the next, and the next and—

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