from me to my body and the body of the earth

on my birthday

welcome to the birthday edition of faye flirts with life. an altar of beauty for the body, soul, and mind written by a woman who moves to make sense of things.

happy birthday to me!

A love letter to my spine

To you who holds me up for better or worse
Who coils and waves and spirals and slithers into whatever shape —
do I choose? Do you?

How about those brilliant bundles of
nervous system filament
sending signals in every direction,
connecting body and brain
and earth and heaven
and some invisible substance through which
this message is transmitted.

How about it?

Without you, dear spine,
none of it would feel so nice.
None of it would feel much of anything!
I’d be but a blob of pudding.

You, my dears,
my 33 vertebrae
laced with electrical wiring,
make life a magical feeling.

idk what are you doing at 1am?

Lats

I started doing handstands at 17.
Little did I know
I’d be growing bat wings.
Little did i know
they’re the sexiest things.
Not because the look nice in a tank top
(though there’s no denying it)
but because they like my tree rings.
My trophies of freedom.
Rippling portraits of self determination.
Reminders that
though I have two competent feet
my hands are where
I sometimes prefer standing.
That and, if you’re going to hold me
a pair of wings would suit you, too.

Flowers

I flow as the petals of
flowers unfurling.
A center connecting spirals
seemingly separate yet —
without all the others fall discontent
and far too delicate to resist
the breeze’s lament and the shower’s downpour.
I am as flower as can be.
Though sometimes a tree
standing on hands
limbs akimbo
dazzling gym bros with
shapes and landings
unsurpassed in elegance.
The soft voiced woman
in the daisy flowered top
asks me mid deadlift
if I dance ballet.

Softness

From the outside looking in
nothing’s much different.
My hair is longer. Biceps a bit larger.
Ass a bit rounder. I’m still here though,
dancing gravity’s limbo.

A coleus the size of a tree,
warm green filled with
cool mid summer wine
not quite burgundy
looks over two patches of
perfect purple petunias.
The left perky and wiggling in sunshine
the right, wilted,
one damaged petal dangling on edge.
She doesn’t seem to mind her mangling.
Spilling from the space
between spry green leaves,
soft, silvery strands of jewelry plants.
Elegant tendrils tangled tenderly together.
Delicate seeming.
Yet any woman can tell you
softness is prerequisite for strength.

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