I grew up in a small team
and when I became leader I carried it with me, first
on my shoulders, then in my hair,
then knitted closely into my jersey.
My internal organs provided support.
My last post was in a communication channel. My duties
involved scraping fresh materials
from its walls. I flushed birds from the air
with my publications. I thought on my feet. I slept on the floor.
I came to know the experience of sound.
Over time my strengths built upon one another like strata.
My knowledge base, once tender
became thick with callouses,
horned with excellence. I later built from it a motorhome
which I parked in a field of data.
It now houses many different audiences
while my diverse hens
work the field,
surprising information in the oxalis.
I am at home
when no two days are the same; the day
that is the same projects a fear in me from beginning to end.
My weakness is the day that is too much
like itself. I leverage it onto a table, any table, for I am flexible
and cut out its environments. They come readily, glistening.
I have spent whole weeks with my mouth pressed to a projector
my heart commissioning oxygen. I have been driven
by the workforce of my passion. I have been caught and lifted
by deadlines which have redrafted my skin. My body reports to the soil.
My resulting blood has pleased me because I have only ever bled plans.