My Wanting is often
the local library cat,
sunbathing in the corner of
the floor-to-ceiling windows
My Wanting is also the North Shore of O'ahu
a wild tempest of waves,
of things I may never have
but want
My Wanting begs for the hole in my chest
to become a lens, a kaleidoscope to see the world through
instead of an empty, insatiable void
it begs for the things that make me a woman on this Earth
to be a blessing rather than
something I silently curse on occasion;
as I make my way up the ski lift
as I make my way down the mountain,
carving a path in the fresh powdered snow
while clutching my lower abdomen
that is carving a message into the walls of my belly,
written in a language that I cannot yet read
written over my want for relief.
My Wanting wants to connect
and r e a c h o u t and touch
it all
but recoils slowly as if it might fall
into abyss
into old habits
into the wrong hands
My Wanting is an earache you get on the plane
from diving too deep into the ocean
and now being so high that it hurts,
but it is bringing you home
I want for the impossible,
the magic, the too-good-to-be-true's
because sometimes it is possible
sometimes the magic is real,
the too-good-to-be's are true
My Wanting wants me to wish on life
like it is a shooting star;
a spark
a blaze
a fading
a darkness
a miracle
and isn't it all a miracle anyways?
I sure do want it to be...
- a.b.