When poetry falls out of my body, I listen
And as the words form,
I am overcome
And you do this to me.
But mostly I do it to myself.
Or, should I say, I allow it.
And when I do,
it’s like an exhale after holding my breath,
only I did not know it was bated until it escaped,
It’s like a bowl of greens after pastries,
a glass of water in the morning sun,
lying with you after weeks apart.
You bring me peace
when I allow it.
Welcome, my sweet love.
I’ll keep the door open for you.
– Nisha Moodley