My twisted belly knows
it squeezes, rocks
My beating heart knows
meaty life-giver
My chattering teeth
Chipped fingernails know
clipped short, still claws
My restless feet know
“no dancing” say angry heels
My red streaked eyes know
Burning tears come and go
They know what I should’ve done.
They are punishing me for not following their lead,
with a constant pain best called unrest.
They moan in their respective ways,
making themselves known
as truth-tellers, seers, part of the decision-making entity
I am.
How to proceed?
Kaitlin Sansoucie 