9 of 30. Remembering Skin #npm


painting by Enrique Martinez Celaya

There are things I miss
(the laundromat, garden walls,
not having to explain).

Growing up feels a lot like
sighing.

This morning, back in New York,
I thought about how
important parts of me are the same,
even after a broken engagement, Albania, college.

I like people, and how they work.
Stories and how they unfold
like old maps in long car rides.

We are all made from the same
skin of paper.

I try to speak less
and listen more.
I still love to talk.

No one has it together.
We are, all of us, beautiful.

Love is not afraid of brokenness,
even though it is inconvenient
and costs much.

I will never fix anyone,
no one will ever fix me.

Love remakes the world.

There are things about the sun rise
I will never understand.

I come back to it
morning after morning
without answers.

Nothing gets easier.
I try to eat with others.
Pray together.

My heart is for the dying,
but it is sometimes too hard
to make my feet follow.

We are, all of us, broken.
I am, all of me,
hopeful.

I look forward
to roses blooming
in Vienna.

Long car rides up the
eastern seaboard.

Life does not happen
in a line. I cannot always follow
the coast.

Who does know why they go
where they are going?

My mother set out our clothes
before the sun came up.
Taught us how to cook and sew
before high school.

I was loved too big to forget
about suffering.
I was hurt too tender to forget
my own story.

There are things that I remember
(fog on the river, peeling paint
on the door frame).

In the sigh of growing up
is the weight of love,
the hope that where we are going
matters.

Life does not happen in a line.
There are mountains and shifting plates,
highways that curve around canyons
and construction.

Back in New York, the trees are
multiplying their leaves,
begging for summer and rain.

The sun is up and bright,
and I missed it this morning
because my body needed sleep.

There is nothing broken
that I can fix.
I look forward to love’s
remaking.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in 30 in 30, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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