the clouds on her shoulders finally gave and the rain fell from the crowned canopy, slipping and gliding past her heart, down each vertebrae, settling onto the hard petals of her pelvis, softening the gray to green. the storms help find the weight of pain not held in the brain though in the sacrum, that bone of being. so much of her is only fixed by the wind sent from the world to cradle locked joints to loosen, letting muscle hang like vines searching for sun in her blood, photosynthesis only possible in this sincerity of stretch the clouds will come again and knows she is god of her own earth.
From: Vol.09 N.01 – A Poetics of Rights
there is weather in her bones
by
J.L. Taylor