What is the shape of your hurt
and the sound of the breath that moves through it?

Where in your body does it vibrate? Sing?
Pulse with its own heartbeat?

Is it restrained and leaked
with a weak, fricative braking – or
is there a silent, momentary collision of wills before the explosion?

How do you send your hurt into the world?
Do you pack it a lunch – a tidy sandwich
buttered on both sides and tucked into a brown bag
with a folded napkin – or do you send it off with a pledge,
slamming a shot glass on the counter?

Does it make a scene in the doorway of your throat?

How do you console the needful infant of your thoughts?

(Uttanasana)

What in your life has folded back on itself?
How did you first recognize your past come again?

Which door has been flung open?
What was the weather on the other side of the threshold?
Did you pass through?

Which “other shoe” has dropped? Who dropped it
and where did it land?
Will you – can you – wear it again?

How did you give in to the pull
and keep on your feet?

What unexpected pleasure did you find in this tension?

And what of your crown?