Dirt & Muscle

I've been tasked with being vulnerable.  Today, I'm supposed to publicly show my soft underbelly.  I'm currently in a (fantastic!) writing course, Digging Deep, Facing Self with Caits Meissner.  It's a big part of why I've been so quiet on this platform-- I haven't been reading (unheard of for me) nor listening to NPR (equally strange) because I've been delving into memory & imagination.  Part of this process is gaining a little experience with being exposed.  Hence, a piece from the course to share with you.  I would greatly appreciate your feedback in the comments below.  Interacting with creative work helps me grow-- & I'm happy to offer the same to you.

Dirt & Muscle

I.

We hid in late night lamp light

stories gathered in our eyes.

Generations of women

with their fingers out of the covers

clutching a book.

Shuffling at the church pew,

holding a hymnal

the words dusty.  

Catch tight breath.  Chewing

clunky waiting to

speak spirit.

The barn relaxes into

Tennessee hills, where

my grandmother hid

to read.  The tired

boards creaked with

teenagers leaning against

one another hearing the piano

sing what hymns forbade.

The beams held when

my great-grandmother

tied her noose, hanging

limp against light.

II.

I keep a jar of Georgia clay by

my bed.  My grandfather scooped

it bare-handed from the earth.

Fertile enough to

grow peanuts, suspend water,

absorb blood.  

Dig in clay and muscle

to sweat off your sins.  Press

thumbs together, earth distills

to silk.  I’ll paint you with soil.  

Heal your skin.  

I plant to purge.  

I hide and watch the

sand separate, watch the

clay turn to dust.  

Southern earth

that spit me out

won’t let me

back in.