And I thought the bugs were all gone
But my hands are very much
My own, or at least they trace down from generations
I never saw, whose hands I never held
And the ants are crawling back
And the gnats circle the house plants
I laid flat on my back and called an ancestor
To visit. One from long enough ago that we would never
Have met and I waited for a presence
My chest felt heavy lungs compressed
And I pictured the archetypal mischievous
Boy ghost pressing down on me with his
Bully face in mine using power that was once new
But is now rehearsed and I had to conjure up
That recess patience - this is a coping strategy
For the pressures of being a boy asked to
Practice being grown
Dominance is confusing and pain is most places
Once I saw him before his early death
As the child we each sometimes are
He lightened the pressure and stepped back
And I sent up the wish for a crone
To guide me there must be at least one
That knew about being gay and knew about magic
And belonging to everything else
She hasn’t visited yet but I imagine she’ll take her time.
i imagine she'll take her time <3
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