POEM A DAY – April 17 – VANESSA SHIELDS

it is a risky move

and the timing is never going to be right w(itch) makes sense considering there’s never a good time to ground myself in the swirling extraordinary chaotic energy of using my voice as a translator for my heart’s mad rationalities. it is not lost on me, that the stress of throat-chakra exclamations results in more loss, how it takes a certain kind of walk to move in the dizzying aftermath of speaking my truth, and lugging the fact that when I walk this walk I immediately feel wrong, crazy, stupid then immediately feel elated, wolfish, and violent, almost, with ecstasy. my body is a cauldron rage-boiling a supreme spell that’s been spelling for eternities in the bellies of women – this primal necessity sexily sliding into an ease, like kissing a neck or buttering my chin with a dandelion or howling at the moon when it’s new and I can’t see it in the sky because it’s on my tongue.