By Jess Berg
A singular right hip—
aches dull and constant like a toothache
until
it
doesn’t
(I roll over one night there
is no spike it has suddenly surprisingly slipslid away
like the bending is working
like I’m not
even
break
ing)
Weak wrists grow strong
Bearing weight from ample
body
and
Burdens
(this is what marks the beginning not a line
but an absence of sensation then a deepening of it then a sinking
into the simple and objective
awareness
of
it)
The entire husk, well—
It opens, it peels,
opens
and it
peels
(this the first of many mantras
repeat them so many times use beads to keep track just remember
to repeat repeat repeat repeat repeat
repeat
repeat
rep-)
And inside the husk is a girl
A girl with another girl
deep down inside
but
not
Quite
(so she
—suddenly removed from herself—
decides to keep the girl burrowed to
keep her inside the husk
to keep her to herself
this becomes a
pattern to
repeat
repeat
repeat
a
lock-and-key kept annual glitch to hold
deep in her
belly
then- )
Look!
A
twister!
She’s a husk!
No! An onion!
She’s peeling
away and away
until at long last the girl
Unrolls
from
Deep
Inside
TheGirl
(Th e
g
ir
l)
(it’s me it’s I and my footprints on bedroom walls racing around them in circles then the window flies open the shutters bang and scrape tearing pages from all the books what a mess oh what a wonderful mess)
What is left:
A trembling cord
Food body fidgets and shakes
All of it now nude with no hands
And on the outside
In very broad daylight,
finally
on the outside.
There is a lightness, even in the quaking
in her body
and in the air and
all the tornado purges
(the girl and I both we both finally clean well now I know I have loved this way all along)
Jess Berg (she/her) splits her time teaching Hatha yoga and working as a visual merchandiser, and has a B.A. in English Literature from Governors State University. She’s a spouse and cat mom, identifies as bi, and loves jogging, drawing, and baking too many vegan cookies.