Poetry, Kiersten Czuwala
Tears, to rivers
Water, to wine
Me, like an iris cut of Kali’s flesh
and a pupil dilating
into a deathless half-light,
sky through sky,
to a body that withers and wanes
like that night half spent.
A requiem of mourning doves echoes.
It ricochets between horizons
and fills the space
with a thin, thin
sound-
to be light,
it means that the density
of the spirit
submits to the palm’s.
I spread my arms out
like wings
and imagine them gossamer,
something intangible enough
to be held
and stay that way.
All holy things
must crescendo and swell-
what happens then?
All swollen things
must deflate
or burst-
what are we then?
A knot? of nerve
and muscle?
The wind, then
making a soft thing
howl.
Kiersten Czuwala (she/her) is a writer and yoga teacher based in upstate New York. Her writing is strongly informed by her yoga practice in the way that the physical body moves and relates to both the metaphysical space and the natural world. At her core, she's nothing more than a Tumblr girl learning to evolve that energy into a more refined, nuanced style. She can be found on Instagram @kiersten.czuwala