Celina McManus

a return to breath

i stole hydrangeas from the catholic church. i snipped them quick, but gentle, and walked away, hammers in my chest, a head of blooms in my clutch, for drying. if stopped, i’d mention the plaque i just passed: “for the body of christ.” i’d stand erect, tight fisting the genitalia of a water vessel, and explain myself with the shape of me. though, if i’m being honest, i probably wouldn’t do that at all. instead, i would mumble incoherently and bouquet into rock. i go home, lotus, and repeat:

i am alone, and i am connected to all things. i am lonely, and i have everything i’ll ever need.

first, the wind touches me. then, the breadth of me drowns in watercolor. next, i zipline between gut and nostrils. finally, i land at the breath in the mountain of my exhale, above the lip. the base of my thumb and forefinger become two trekking poles. within the nostrils, i climb into the clouds. each step, closer to the small village where llamas bring lunches, the diaphragmatic breath, the blistered soles of my feet.

i yogi toe until i’ve found what i needed: a body to love, my own.