Oikos
By Kate Kampner I am barefoot in front of a church. Shoes in my hand, drunk on the nighttime. I stare at it, wondering, where do I go? I feel it loom over me, shadows seeping into my face, and I feel as if it’s taunting me. Tell me what to do, I say, but no response is given and suddenly I am alone. I am barefoot in a field. Mud baptized through my toes and blisters on the bottom of my feet, I want her to become my selfless leader. I want her to provide my prophets and give me an existence that no one and no place could. I apologize to her, begging for her forgiveness. Her wind feels calm against my face. It raises my arms and suddenly I feel like a child, floating through air. A bluejay. She says, come as you are, not as you should be. The bug bites on my ankles are my entry fee and the hair on my legs has become a sign of my presence rather than my sabotage. This is who I am, I tell her. I am the roots in the soil, the stem of the raspberry bush, the apples from the trees in September. I am the sky’s apprentice and the wind’s new friend. I let the sun creep onto my shoulders, hello. To myself, I am an empty canvas, but she shows me I am full—my stomach, my heart, my mind. The strawberries dye my hands as wine does at the altar; this is my blood. Peaches fall at my feet; this is my body. I give myself to her and she gives herself back to me. H
Art by Maggie Alberghini Headwaters Magazine 5
