Sometimes things stir.
Sometimes a beat, or a movie will whirl up into existence and change the way you breathe in.
Sometimes a stranger with a bag.
Sometimes a line from a book or a tweet.
Sometimes warm batter and a wooden spoon.
Inside your chest.
These things stir.
They were slumber but only now
It takes a lit match to wake up to
for things to stir.
And I am stumbling and whirling. My insides have messed around,
they are in all the wrong places,
but it feels like the fit, for now.
It feels like my heart’s in my pelvis and my stomach’s in my chest.
Food is the heart of love. Sex is the love of passion.
My heart is rumbling,
means it’s time to eat.
Means it’s time to devour
to break open this skin,
make a daguerrotype
of your face
on my abdomen
These things stir
within my chest,
turn and tumble.
I have found what was troubling me,
and it is me. It is my core of cores.
And it is not trouble.
Sometimes things just-