Garden of my Heartstrings

Blurred Edges and Golden Sweetness

Jana Brike, Dusk in the Garden

My head is
I was going to say
heavy
but is that accurate?
On with it. 
I feel pressure,
but it could be the
barbie pink scrunchie
gathering my wild mane
in a messy bunch.

Lately, typing annoys me.
I want only pen and ink and quiet and
I want connection
but not like that.
So. Damn. Sensitive. 
I love it. But get
the fuck
out of my face
… unless you speak my 
language —
body.

Maybe I’m being ridiculous but
have you ever felt your heartstrings
as actual things?
Threads emanating from your
thumping chest and
you can pull them and
your heart unzips and all
in a moment of trust you’re
thrust wide open?
Devotion.
Magnetic.

And have you then
gone to the supermarket and felt
fumbling humans drawn your way 
like moths towards a flame?
But they don’t know why
and they are clumsy and
it’s disturbing,
exhausting.

Peace in the garden.
I’ve got to release
my hair from this scrunchie 
so my head can breathe.
That is the only thing —
loving you and breathing —
and that is enough for me,
except I have to make this
presentation and
read these books and
make these offerings. Yes.
The offerings. I like to pour;
of course, my preference is to 
flow in your direction, yet,
if I writhe on the floor a moment,
maybe I can
release my resistance to
opening more,
and more,
and more.

I find pleasure again
in the work I’ve come for,
and that is it, isn’t it?
It is, whatever it is.
Peace in the valley.
Peace in the garden.
My heart is glowing and
rather than shattered,
as it was this morning,
it is soft 
and rich
and layers of
bubblegum pink 
and caramel oozing
through the veins of it
and I soften my skin, 
the barrier between
my pulsing and 
everything I’m touching.
Thresholds dissolving and 
pools of gold
enrobing my sweetness.

I can sense the difference
through blurred edges,
ripples of energy
yours and mine and 
wavelike.
You’re invited in.
Now I know what 
home
feels like.

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