It’s not a place. It’s not a thing. It’s not something I can touch. — I have this desire
to sink my hands into the earth.
Into the dirt.
Into the mud.
Crimson, mulchy, moist dirt.
Dirt.
I want your filth underneath my nails,
Rich, earthy, ground,
I think of you often.
Earth.
A remembrance
of some sacred bond
between you and me.
You are Mother.
You are Woman.
You are this body.
I am this mud,
this earth,
this nature
and I long…