Practicing for what you do now

On what it feels like when everything has changed

I.

I walk by a window box
filled with white and pink hydrangeas–
		fake, and bright
I am smoking a cigarette stuffed with flowers called
		sexy smokes
because I am sad 
                and I did not know what else to do
until I remembered the coupon in my wallet 
                for 25% off a handmade thing
at the golden poppy apothecary


Three times I circled the block for a parking space
three times to ask myself 
               what it is I think I'l find
a poster of a bruja doing bone readings–
a plant oracle deck, sample open on the table in the corner—
I ask, like I always do, the hardest question–
                 what do I need?
I pull Motherwort–the card says she is a lap where I can lay my head, 
and also
a piece of ground where I can stand on my own two feet 
as if to say
		I am here.
		This is me.
		Standing.
		What else is there to do?


II.

I ask the Woman behind the counter to make me a Motherwort tea.
And as she does, scooping the brown herbs into a paper bag, she says, 
                It’s bitter, but worth it.
Bitter, I say—not really a question. 	

III.

I return home with the Motherwort, 
and my own pack of flowers for the flame.
Then take my dog on a walk so I can feel free.
               Trying it on—free—
And as I do, a woman walks by 
asks if my dog is friendly.
Yes, but also skittish, depending on the day, 
the dog, I reply.
The two dogs sniff each other out.
They are gentle, and kind. 	
She asks my dog’s name 
and I say Freyja, and hers is Jane, 
and then we introduce ourselves,
but I can’t ever remember the humans’ names, 
             only the animals,
             only the flowers.
             only myself.
             Walking.
             In the sun. 

To listen to a recording of "Practicing for what you do now," click above.