The Days

Yesterday I was no more
than a house sparrow,
wire claws, swollen size,
wings baying to branches
without disturbing leaves.
Yesterday I was hidden,
a hut in snowfell Canada,
harvested forest fire
razing in my chest,
the guitar of a frozen,
beloved boy
played there,
as he did when we
were nineteen.
Yesterday I was a handpan
beneath pale fingers
floating on a Man'o'war sea.
I was a man'o'war
not long before.
Today I no longer
push wings from my spine cracks.
I no longer steal myself
into a well of white flecks
to hide the shame
of being a broken beast,
of everyone seeing it.
I let the moon race in,
chase inside
as if a child,
from a pool with their Sister.
Today I let the sound of Pan
echo from his forest,
song no longer cracking
my human frame.
Today I could move
through seas of stinging,
feel everything and be
no more wounded
or howling to pass it by.
These days have been
a way to know my whole self,
know her spirit's holy,
forgive and relieve.