Skye Leslie
Oregon, USA
I want to tell you my story mouth to mouth.
I want to whisper struggles – feel your lips go
soft in understanding and when my voice grows stronger I can tell of the mountains – how at a point in my climb my breath went crystal, became the ice in my veins.
I want our margins to match and stretch in smile. In the knowledge that our dance is not complete until we’ve merged sorrow with celebration.
I want you to know the salt of my words; the gall which has risen. That there were days when my speech corroded and rust,
lodged in my throat like the birds who built nests in base of a chimney.
More, I want my transformation to be visible like a chrysalis hanging from a pear tree bough, with internal wings beating, beating against its encompassing shroud.
I want the honey which lies now on my tongue to pour down your throat as my recollection now song.