By Patty Willis Disasters are openings in our armadillo skin that keeps us safe from cuts and scrapes but steels us from everything else. We can’t make that mighty push that breaks the shell or the patient tapping that takes all our strength until the moment we feel that lack of air and a longing for oxygen so great that we will do anything to breathe. We stop caring that our faces turn ugly and purple with the effort of pushing. When we emerge, you offer Gatorade and point the way to showers. Come and wash clean. No need to speak of the passage or our old lives. This is where we want to be finally, skin alive to the air, our noses quivering with scents like dogs and bears, our ears tuned to the birds, the earth revealed as holy, calamity as grace. Rev. Patty Willis is a minister, writer, artist and translator based in Arizona. She has also been active in immigration justice and reconciliation between white settler descendants and indigenous people.
Patty's other work on Foreshadow: Pumping Station in the Desert (Poetry, July 2021)
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