warrior goddess

These incisions are healing.
Funny.
Healing funny.
First, I can't walk or bend or stand or turn.
Then I can shower with my back to the stream.

It was just only a couple weeks ago I first laughed without pain.

 Last week, I ran.
Today, the right side incision is black and has a hole.

The process is as ugly as you can believe, every part. That is, if you think normal is beautiful.
I stopped glowing and singing. I turned dark and sorry and crying instead.

  Whatever this dance is, it's ungraceful. If grace is effortless flow.

By Fate, or Choice or Chance, I have danced this in the dark. You may have seen the stage, you may have read the reviews and I know it seems all wrong. I shouldn't have fallen or worn these terrible shoes.
    I've got no excuses for the shape I'm in.

I'm cut up through my belly, through my Manipura Chakra
Svadhishthana Chakra. Both.

I've been poisoned to kill misplaced love.

Grieving life-bearer.
Lonely lover.
Injured victim.
Defensive lioness.
Solitary warrior.
Nurse.
Healer.
Bread winner.

       In the aftershock,

I asked for the surgeon and came up with the questions, anesthesia still wearing off.
  I walked myself to the pharmacy alone, uphill  and back, hours after waking up.
I bought myself the chicken and cooked it up into soup. I administered the herbal allies, applied my own salve and updated my own family. I kept working, offering healing to others, so I could continue to pay rent.

This is not what I thought fertility should look like. This is not what you think a warrior goddess should look like.
     How painful being wrong can be. That is, if we are attached to being right.