Daria Shipukhina, Fluid Nature
Forgetting the Shape of Home
Deborah Corr
I made a bed of soil
in my mother’s garden,
earth molding to
the shape of my body,
I lifted fists full of dirt
and watched
as it filtered back
in a flow to the ground,
my eyes unfocused,
lost in sensation,
the sky benevolent
above the planet
with its own
heartbeat, the lub-dub
that rocks an infant
in its mother’s womb.
When did that sound
grow faint in my ear?
When did I forget
how to shape my body
to fit the contours
of my home.
Deborah Corr
I made a bed of soil
in my mother’s garden,
earth molding to
the shape of my body,
I lifted fists full of dirt
and watched
as it filtered back
in a flow to the ground,
my eyes unfocused,
lost in sensation,
the sky benevolent
above the planet
with its own
heartbeat, the lub-dub
that rocks an infant
in its mother’s womb.
When did that sound
grow faint in my ear?
When did I forget
how to shape my body
to fit the contours
of my home.