How many times have you noticed
a flickering of light at the underbelly?
Day in and day out,
kindness grows like a long limb.
In a minute it will settle.
Rubber cement tooth and gum.
And in my own silent throat a soreness.
There is a space with no name.
Earthly state of striking layers
scatters through the body.
The throat a nameless aperture.
This world is filled with large words making up for appetite:
Esteemed Judge; Holy Proclaimer.
Each of them embalmed, rose water into the veins.
Those hands scratch softly, unscrew my spigot, tilt my jaw back.
Suddenly there is no
housing the dark and the warming —
the air before it enters my lungs —
I am bent uvula,
ghost-smitten stone of the mountain.
It is wholesome mud underfoot.
Resilient and trodden, riddle of bone.
The feeling of a self so charged.
Yes, I’m rehearsing a request
of what I pine for,
The incurable figure-eight
of my manifest limbs —
spooky & brave & strong.
Kelsey Britton lives in Oregon, where she explores body-centered techniques for reconnecting with healing, body wisdom, and joy. The theme of recovering harmony with one’s innermost self is central in her writing inspiration and process. She is a former student of Interlochen Academy of the Arts in Michigan, where she majored in creative writing and spent evenings reading short stories on the banks of a lake.