A Human, On Earth

When we woke up in the morning,
our bodies covered in organic sunscreen,
I had fermented into a fine wine
and our bare flesh touched in the front
and in the back.
We abstained for fear of infection.
She had tossed and turned
while I tossed and turned,
considering roomie woes
as I tried to decide how
I might make her feel all right.

I thought of being a child,
a large child, but small of mind
and usable stature,
fearful and anxious over my
lack of control.
In those days my mother
would take me aside and ask me
to think about how I might overcome
doubt and insecurity,
but I had neither the perspective
nor the strength of character to
undertake those small first steps.
So instead she would tell me
that she would offer compensation,
no matter how short I fell and
I can remember feeling
sublimely cared for,
elated that I would not have to
do it all on my own.

With that in mind,
I wanted to imbue her thoughts
and show her that light,
but I feared that I was
not that nurturing
not that nurturing and that I would
fall short.
But what natural thoughts they were,
both to care and to fear,
and in that moment,
examining reciprocal care
that I was blessed to share,
I felt like a human, on Earth,
which, for me, is quite rare.

(From August 2016)

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