as my breathing falters for the first time,

and my body fills with unfamiliar insects, pulling my eyelids in on themselves and

growing thick vines across my intestines, 

i enter into the world of my mothers – those i have adopted

          and who have held my hands in prayer for as long as i have needed them

i sit in a knot of limbs and foreign pains

at the feet of a dozen women

share space, break bread

over my broken spirits and their bodily aftermath,

we meet at their sweet gaze

where they rest to take in my scratches and worried ticks

assess my remnants and 

tell me about themselves as if i were their daughter.

as the sun passes the outstretched hand of the horizon,

i press my hardened jaw into the space between us

breathe in squares to prepare my body as refuge to their welcome knowledge

i would like to share what they say. 

i would like to share what they say to me,

          these women with whom i share my heart, and who

          graciously share theirs

when i come to them in a pile of hastily pitched projects and

expectations blocked by hesitation to take a step in the wrong direction

to trip and fall into the unbearable.

at this they never laugh, but always smile.

at this they hold me in their words and tell me

          how painful indeed, life is.

it is not an easy thing to be happy, she says, 

          or else would there not be many more happy people?

in the mornings the birds cry out

that you must fight to be happy

and i call back now and then that

it is the cruelest fight there is, but i will mount the horse another day.