Because my doctor says results will be back soon.
Because my pulmonologist said I need a therapist.
Because of the scars.
Because of the angels and the healers and the dreams.
Because my left shoulder hurts from my grandfather’s violin.
Because my knees belong to my mother.
Because needy men leave an imprint on my body.
Because my skin needs touch.
Because your skin need touch.
Because six feet is as far as Italy.
Because Italy.
Because when I walk nine miles on the seventh my grandmother joins me.
Because the liver says what about the cupcakes?
Because the lungs have to rise and rise and forget nothing.
Because your lungs are the sacs that carry your grief.
Because grief sings.
Because your heart has a brain.
Because when you exhale
you release the parts of yourself that no longer serve you.
Because every cell, every breath,
the whole surface of the whole of you is awake now.
Every scar, every limp, every “I can’t” is asking you to rise.
Rise, warrior, like the moon on a moonless night
how it bargains with the horizon until the horizon yields.