Coming Home to Work
I have arrived home to a beehive; everyone industrious, everyone filled with purpose, everything buzzing right along. My response to this of course is anger. I have a sting and I want to use it. I have a place it falls into yet I fear falling. The living world is now opened to me, but my destination had been death for so long that the prospect of diligence ignites steel blue fury. I divide my time between gratitude and rage. I want to accuse myself, rescue myself, then I remember everyone in this place has a buzz, a stripe and a stinger.
Hum in a foreign language
I have to be my own appetizer
I have to be the thing which entices and intrigues me
I must be the roughage, the salad full of color and variety
The entrée must be me, as well.
The things which sustain me
The meat of my life
I have to supply and swallow it down
I can be all this.
I run to the sweetness of others
But this cannot be my source of sustenance
The greater part of me
Needs to derive from me.
I can set the table
And fill it with the fullness of who I am
I am enough and others are dessert
Twinkies will never be sufficient, they can only be a treat.