What home feels like

bones knitted,
crossed, held,
warm, suctioned,
cocooned.

My son is a miracle,
not that I forgot that I could bare children,
or that they could bare me through themselves,
but a living miracle.
Of bones, flesh and heart.
Blue veins, with crimson red,
big clouds full of rain,
and tears.

Open mouth,
golden milk,
tears, so many tears.
Nests full of daylilies,
yarrow, tansy, lupine,
poppy, thistle blossom.

My breasts are a home,
my child nuzzled deep in my warmth,
surrounded by freckles,
and more tears.

My child is a miracle,
I tell him this as he nurses,
and how in someway he is nursing me,
into nourishing ways,
of finding home in my own body,
I know he too is making that journey,
back into his body each moment,
of each breath
and how we find each other,
swelled up in the bottom
of the ocean,
like two lost mermaids,
finding peace at last,
in the embrace of another,

and how so badly I have wanted this,
this feeling of being human,
a love that is rich,
it is close to pain,
and that I know inside myself
it is not forever.

That these moments are new
fresh, full of real tears
of some sort of redemption.

How times I tossed and turned,
praying for my time to come,
where I could fallow each of my foot steps,
back to the source of my own longing,
to realize it was nourishment,
home
and self love
I have been seeking my entire life,
and through him,
his message so deep
transparent,
and true,
that I am a home,
no more different then an island,
inhabiting ecosystems
of life emerging from cell,
to cell.

That my cells
are his cells,
and my mothers cells,
and my grandmother cells,
and her mothers cells,
and the cells of the giant whisper,
that blew air into my lungs,
as I emerged into my form.
I know this journey so well,
and I see this journey in his eyes.

I see his humanness,
and his cries,
his gasping,
his happiness,
his simplicity,
with finding love
and safety in my arms.

My arms.
Yes my arms are safe for him,
I am that smell for him
that rings the bell so perfectly,
that allows freedom for him,
rhythmic.
that we don’t need to go anywhere,
except to be nearer to one another.

My son is a miracle,
now he may one day tell you I breathed life into him,
but my child has breathed into me,
a new way of being,
a new way of mothering,
a new way of being human,
and that is a miracle.