Do Less, Be Gentle (Revised)

A train on its tracks

The story of this poem: This is a revision of a favorite of mine. I used to live near enough to the tracks of the MBTA that I could hear the different noises the trains made as they traveled away from solid ground onto the rickety bridge. I spent a lot of sleepless nights back then reckoning with my new leadership responsibilities at work.

DO LESS, BE GENTLE

I’m supposed to be asleep right now.
I can’t help but feel
That something missing must be found. 

The wind sends me a late-night text.
It lights up my dark room. It says:
“When you are weary,
Sleep.
Fuck the haters who prop you with caffeine.
If you were meant to be wide-eyed,
You would not feel empty.
You would be filled with daylight.
If sleep invites you to her home,
Attend. 
She puts on a lovely spread.”

The train clicks gently on its track.
Do less, be gentle, do less, be gentle.
It rattles over the bridge:
Dolessdolessdolessdolessdoless.
I’m supposed to be asleep right now.
The mother-train rocks me
In the best way she knows how.

I changed my identity.
There is a new core:
A gorgeous blend of those who carried me,
Faces and voices I kept on retainer
For times when I found myself in danger.
I don’t need extremes like those anymore.

I built levees that hold back shark-tides:
Now, I walk on peaceful beaches.
I wash my life in respect for myself:
When I love me so well,
I cannot help but love the folks nearby.
I yearn to kiss their cheeks,
I crave to pick their leeches.

I’m supposed to be asleep right now. 
My job is to be slow:
A stone in the river,
Smoothed over time,
A hand in a moment of panic,
Warm and steady in the tide.
When we cry out in fear,
We crave someone to soothe us,
Not a returning scream in the night.
I’m supposed to be asleep right now.
(How does a body doze
When it feels buried underground?)

My flesh hugs my bones,
Climbs like vines,
Embraces muscles like lovers,
Folds,
Flexes,
Flourishes. 
If I be forced to birth myself,
Then let me do it on all fours.
Pass me a mirror,
Point it at my pussy so I can see it.
If I have to crack my own pelvis
To escape into freedom,
So be it.

The rule book says
A woman’s hair is her crowning glory.
What does it make me if my wreath is a man’s?
Mine's sharp with jewels:
I tore them from cave walls with my own hands.
I melted down silver cloud-linings,
Sized it just for me,
Made it perfectly balanced,
And so damn flattering.
Had enough metal left, 
Made myself some brass knuckles and a ring. 

I’m supposed to be asleep right now, but
I can’t rest now that I have my crown.