Teach me a meditation

I.

I sit here

Trying to curb my insomnia into a cul de sac

Trying to find a soft place to land 

Somewhere up there my mind spends time racing instead. 

So many things skipping like stones across still waters, glassy and copper like a South Carolina dusk. 

But, there are so many things you cannot take when you’re pregnant. 

Papaya for one

Melatonin for another 

And did you know that rheumatic disease expresses itself after you give birth? 

The baby. The baby. Baby. 

You cannot. 

Be with.

Sit with. 

II.

Do you ever eat the honeysuckles? 

She asks this in a honey sweet voice and I imagine she is chamomile and all its lilting, delicate flowers. 

We nod our heads as she teaches us how to pull the stamens from their sheaths, slippery and sticky, 

Tiny as crawfish- how very southern 

And a bit of sickly sugar coats my tongue,

And a pithy, bitter taste sifts into my mind. 

Breathe.

You cannot.

And I’m a thousand miles away again, floating in the ether, reaching for the road. 

So many things are skipping about like dragonflies over still waters, glassy and ochre,

And somewhere down there the flowers are blooming 

Pistons bowed toward the earth 

Like trumpets singing little songs

Sad ones,

And sweet ones too.