Becoming (a poem)


moon over Rishikesh
I am being bornI am giving birth
Labor, tearing me apart

Crushing me

Breaking bones that should be malleable

Soft and pliable

But they crack

And they jut

And they shred

I am alone with my Self

The pain I inflict sets me screaming

No one hears

No one can

What sound does a soul make when it dies

When it lives

I think it is something like a river crashing

Like earth crumbling

Something like the moon turning

In it’s slow, sweet orbit