Me, Rising
By Pauline Peters

And as I rose (because I dreamed

of rising) I regreted that I had not

pressed my naked feet more often

into the soft brown body of the earth.

And as my feet pedaled, desperate in the air,

as I clutched at wisps of clouds,

I regreted that I was never planted,

and that I never had the honour of roots or leaves,

and could not translate the wind

into a chorus of fluttering green tongues.

And as her shimmering blue umbilical cord fell away

I ached for the earth, for her soil and heartbeat,

for her milli-faceted soul.

And as I looked down, as I turned and spun,

as cities became small enough

to hold in the curve of my hand,

I regreted that I had not been

pleased more often by the chalk white

shell of my morning egg, by its

floating golden heart.

I wished that I had pondered the mystery

of the singular whorls of my fingertips

and how my palms pressed together

could make a true cup for water.

And as I spiraled up and up and further still,

I wondered what new breath awaited,

what tall beings,

and would they be carved

of star or sky?

Pauline Peters is an African Canadian writer living in Toronto. Her poetry has been published in Canadian Literature; Room; The Literary Review of Canada; The Windsor Review; Prairie Fire, The Fiddlehead, PRISM international and The Malahat Review among others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, received an Editor’s Choice Award and been nominated for “Best of the Net.” Pauline's  chapbook The Salted Woman was published in Britain by Hedgespoken Press.