To Be Alive (poem)

To Be Alive

alive feels like air filling your lungs like ammunition

and your body releasing it like a song into the wind

alive is taking mere elements and atoms and

transforming them into so much more

(lunchbox notes, Sunday mornings, slow dances)

alive is the intake of sensation—

the colors that welcome the sun each morning

the rays that seep into your skin

the taste of sweat as you lick your lips, hearing

your stomach rumble and the subtle sound

of your bare feet against the grass, running inside, following

the scent of dinner, freshly baked bread being birthed as

you enter and the oven door opens in all its

heated glory

alive feels like the sweet ache in your muscles

that you don’t even notice until

you surrender yourself to the night

and lie in bed with heavy eyelids

alive feels like the release of the tangled web

you didn’t foresee yourself creating—yet

you did, and

you loved it

you loved the feeling of flying

as you grasped each strand of string

below the balloons and settled for submitting

to the helium’s will because the ride was

worth it

but there comes a time when

you realize you have stayed for too long

when you see the knots you tied and the tears you cried

alive feels like the moment you realize it’s time

to let go

to free fall

alive is the intake of sensation and you remember them all

the colors in his eyes that greeted you each morning

the touch of his warm hands

on your own icy exterior

the sound of his car radio

that you heard from your bedroom

as he turned onto your street

the smell of his apartment that branded his clothes

and still lingers in your nose, teasing

your nostalgic heart

and the taste of sweat, not knowing who

it came from because you were both messes

of fire—not because you sat next to the stove—but

because you were in your own

heated glory

if eyes are windows,

consider my mouth a

trapped door, beckoning

for yours

but alive is also an action—a path

that commands your feet to

keep moving

alive is a wave that you ride

covered in salt, water draining you

of your warmth, yet you manage

a breath, and then another one,

and even one after that

the ocean roars but you remember

it has surrendered itself to another

and the moon will remind you

nothing lasts forever and

every phase will pass

alive is the involuntary closing

of your eyelids as you drift to sleep

and it’s the choice to open them the next morning,

greeting the sun in all its heated glory, even if

it burns

so you fill your lungs with ammunition and

brace yourself, because alive is

worth it

~6/7/17

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?"

—Mary Oliver, "The Summer Day"