I learn 12 ways to be tender
I learn 12 ways to be tender
I learn to wrap my voice in 100% Egyptian cotton, in cruelty-free silk
I learn one way to feather-kiss your eyelids
and two ways to listen:
with my eyes
and then with my hands.
I tiptoe past a rain worm
and watch it curl into infinity
I learn that watching life is tender,
that being careful is tender too.
Some wounds are tender
and I learn not to prod them
not even after a fight when
I’d like to push my finger into
the lip of these wounds
and make them talk to me
I resist and learn that resistance is tender.
I learn ways to care less, care full,
ways to caress, care as
much as possible.
I learn that tenderness is a recipe:
take one thick rack of the year 2014,
pull out its bones,
add a teaspoon of fermented love letters
toss in a handkerchief with embroidered edges
sprinkle one cold-pressed compliment
season it with the sting of an old insult
pressure cook for four whistles.
I learn 12 ways to be tender
one way with myself
I leave camellias in favourite books
so they can be found by me in the future
crushed under the weight of the past
but still beautiful, still whole.
