I don't know what I was

I wrote this today -- a few moments ago. Of course the themes are the old, familiar ones. But I have been musing on them again, as I always do, when it seems like the world expects something that I don't know how to give.

I don't know what I was

I don’t know what I was

if I lied, or how much; sometimes just covering your face

is a lie.

Did I change my shape?

Did I walk through a portal? Was I engulfed by fire?

Did I speak in tongues?

A body isn’t a diamond. If I fall on the sea, I become sea.

I think all we can do is dedicate ourselves,

like how flowers dedicate themselves to opening,

to holding what we love.

That work is hard enough, with ravenous

mysteries around each corner.