the time I tried being myself in a room that shook equidistant to my soul

I am being pulled by the fabric of my 

torso. 

A million freight tonnes

of discourse 

about my childhood 

rests in the gaps 

between my shins, knees, and thighs. 

I stitch the threads while the knots

unravel in the space between my 

hair line and eyebrows. 

The awareness of 12,000 travellers 

and no one. 

I will fall on both knees before the torrent; heavy, weighty, waiting. 

The breathing tells me when to stop. 

Until I come to a place,

back flat against the bottom of the canoe

stars cut into the night while soil pools at my feet. 

I am the oar.