Avis Adams

She worked the

flanges of my

inner hip, the

hard bone

surrounding soft

flesh, the hara.

She stirred the stew

of my belly bowl,

released the ache

I’d collected during days

of carrying boxes filled with

memories, covered in dust.

I traveled those boxes

like a breeze

blown through

a broken window,

the sharp glass

slicing the flow.

I came to her ancient,

at one with my pain.

She pulled the bowl

of my belly

inside out, and I

glistened once more.

Avis Adams lives in Washington (the state) with her husband of at least a million years. She writes poetry and teaches English at a local community college. When she isn’t writing, she’s hiking, cross-country skiing, gardening, taking pictures, or visiting her grown children in Portland, Oregon or San Diego, California.

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