Half a person, I live to be.
Never a daughter. Not a wife.
Not a land owner.
Not a mother.
Once a son.
Then
I turned away as a father.
I can’t stop what the sun sees
half in the mirror,
always half is the mirror.
The other side, holy side,
effervescence, the spirits.
Whole to my cat,
the little sprittlemites.
Born to be shamanic… supersonic.
Two parts are those oak trees,
pollinator and pollinated.
But me,
in the land of people and cities
and big box stores
selling merchandise from China;
I live as half a person.
Vanished and thriving.
Voiceless, unseen,
but I guess I get to be pretty,
sometimes,
depending on the beholder.
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