Imagine a woman
begins to read her own life
from the beginning, and finds
that much is missing, not to be replaced.
Imagine she turns pages over,
looking for the mother, the father
who would nurture and nourish
the infant the woman had been.
Imagine the woman does not turn
away from her story, but reads on,
and when she cries, imagine
the way she holds herself
in her own arms
gently.
Imagine a woman with a book
of her own life
that has no appendix, no code
to connect this wound
to that scar, that soreness
to this ease. And the woman
does not stop reading.
She places a finger lightly on each black shape
along the line, determined to feel
the hardest angle, the sharpest
point at each sentence’s end.
Imagine the woman presses harder,
then looks at her fingertips
imprinted with every true word.
Imagine the woman takes the book
in both hands,
sets it firmly aside, then
taking ink and pen in hand,
she opens a fresh notebook,
and imagines a woman
who knows what words
are needed to make the first book
into a song.
fresh out of my mind 
Intense. We can write our story our way and let it lift us. Intense.
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Omg, Debbie, my heart is thumping in my chest! This poem is an answer to my morning’s prayer, in which I asked for clarity and direction. Thank you, dear goddess writing sister friend, for writing this and for putting it out here into the world. Your words, my soul. Much love, M
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I’m grateful to know it, thank you, darling Ms M!
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