My Feelings Aren’t Nomadic

I want to carry the strength you possess.

It could lift mountains,

in which the goats peek through the rugged terrain, 

an astonished look painted on their face 

as they surpass the height of the birds.

I want to believe as you do. 

Your hope, 

which reached years into the future, 

did not succumb to the crumbling present.

And now it is good.

You trusted it would be, 

and so it is.

Of all these wants I hold, 

there is something

I must release from the harrowing grip

of my bloodline.

A curse disguised as safety.

I refuse to continue. 

I need not inherit your ability

to suppress emotions so deep,

that even the eyes of God 

would dart about in search of them.

I refuse to leave my sentiments behind, 

as I am hundreds of miles away. 

My feelings aren’t nomadic.  

They must latch to the tips of my fingers 

and warm my skin on long nights

as I hold myself.  

They must flow from the soles of my feet, 

up my trembling thighs—

to my strained abdomen 

and my pacing heart. 

They must pass to my larynx, clashing and clawing to be subdued,  

and finally, 

they must be followed out with a breath of liberation. 

I will bring them with me, my feelings, 

and let go when destined, 

because my feelings

aren’t nomadic.

-Lincey B.