i am swollen, oversalted, stretched tight
across knuckles that complain, skin reddened
under the weight and congestion of you.
i am loose words, unfinished sentences, clauses
run rampant in destructive freedom-- why
can't you answer, why aren't there answers?
platelets that drag, sluggish, down red corridors
won't respond till thorough irrigation:
water that sluices through amorphous boundaries,
the walls ombre with the gaining hydration.
only then do the joints move smoothly,
only then do the hands lose that blooded tinge.

So what if I wind up used, useless, an aftertaste
Instead of the primacy of sex in your mouth, so what?
So I am aged, serious, empty of the things we prize the most--
Beauty, humor, glamour, affection, seduction--
If at the end I am graceless, then let me be graceless.
Let me be fat and ugly and mean, let me have empty hands.
Maybe then I will learn to be humble, to keep sweet.

I want to be more than the money I make
I want to be more than where I live
I want to be more than the job I have
I want to be more than the car I drive
I want to be bigger than the impact of mentoring
I want to be deeper than the image of motherhood
I want to be better rounded than the labels I fit
I want to be stronger than the sum of my parts
I want to look back and know I was active
I want to look forward and know I am able
I want to see the results of a personal effort
I want to touch the heart of someone else
I want to try everything once and get in trouble
I want to forgive the mistakes I cannot resolve
I want to grasp the glory of the unknown world

Is that ok