I’ve trimmed last year’s

split ends with craft scissors.

I am no longer Ariadne,

abandoned on an island

with sleep dust still in her eyes.

my year was naked

and I wonder if hers was too.

did her stomach tie itself in knots,

malnourished, making food of itself

after being left with no words to digest?

how long did she stare at the ripples

left by Theseus’ disappearing ship

to search for bobbing glass,

note tucked in its throat,

before teaching herself

not to be hungry

even though hunger is her right?

​

I have pulled myself up on land legs,

grateful for moments where naked

vulnerability didn’t hurt, but sustained me:

​

                 wearing homegrown blooms of magenta,

                 deep lavender, royal blue on my sleeves

​

                 white, midnight jellyfish

                 under witchy river moon

​

                 cozy pocket of Saturday rain

                 and pink pillow talk

​

                 learning to ask

                 for what I want

​

I step into this yellow year

asking for the courage of words.

I want to palm them like apples,

a feast at my fingertips.