Those early days, when you were
small enough to carry,
my entire life curved
like a nautilus around you.
You were separate,
but not severed.
Never have I been so raw, child,
as I felt bringing you into this world
of both violets and beheadings.
How can we remain open?
What choice do we have
but to don our armor
in order to go forth each day?
But to be most alive
we must be willing
to be broken, over and over,
to keep our palms open,
those muscles in our chests
un-barbed, in whatever body
we're given.
So may you open like the orchid,
my child, I beseech you.
The wind blows, the leaves fall.
There is no compass but love.
"On Breaking" is published with kind permission of the author.
The ALL Review is pleased to present our How to Live series, poems chosen to help readers navigate these difficult and rapidly changing times.
