Jill Kitchen
SHEDDING
once, i bled into a bed somewhere off i-25 near belén. back when i spoke the language
of my body even less than i do now, surprised by the red planet swelling larger & larger
on motel sheets. he didn't know, he had slept in the other bed. we had arrived at 4am
& were about to drive west at check out. i pulled the thin scratch of blanket up to cover
my secret, hoped the hotel staff had seen worse. i wasn't brave enough yet to own up to
the happenings of my body to another gender, to anyone really. nineteen & still learning
when & what might happen to me, riding shotgun while others took me where they wanted
when they wanted, my fingers tracing my hoped-for path. this whole life a struggle to find
a voice & even now i stumble to find words when i crackle at the edges, a burn of throat
that longs to open, release flame of floodwater, decades of what i haven't said. i leave
pieces of myself along every highway exit, exhaled whisper of where i could have drawn
my own destination. but i wasn't taught to carve my own road, i was taught to follow.
the earth of me shakes to unlearn this lesson, to start anew. sunflowers thread a vein
of august pavement, reaching for light while falling.