Everyday I write something (a few lines of poetry, a paragraph from a story, a first sentence, a life quote, a thought) to sort out the tangled inkspills in my head. These are my Daily Tangled Inkspills.
We are a different species of flower,
Something strangled into the helices
Of our ancestors, our culture.
The experts explain the flight-or-fight reaction with big words
Tossed into a cauldron of anthropology
And biochemistry and history.
Our heartbeats threaten to swallow us whole,
And sometimes we want to shed the shabby names
On our birth certificates.
And just sometimes, we imagine being reborn from new seeds,
Handed head starts at germination,
And stamped with names that sound American.