I Am Not Gas Station Coffee

I am not a gas station coffee, I am the orange pottery mug that you love that you’ve always owned—filled with coffee from beans that you grind in your kitchen.

Your kitchen that sees morning light just right—the one that understands what your footsteps say, as if they are speaking to the walls how you slept.

I am not woman. I am not blonde.

I am not Canadian, white, skinny, 0, 29, single—I am sacred.

I am flesh and bones sewn from the ancient groves of these forests—I ran here in the darkness while you were still asleep.

I am composed of spider webs that hold rain. I am dew glistening on vibrant green. I am silver sky’s and rain drops that meet the grey of the ocean below.

I don’t identify with what you identify me with—I am spirit. Spirit that runs and plays laughing through fields at dusk—running her hands amongst the sweetness of wheat.

I encompass the heavens inside my chest, the dripping redness of a sap that you couldn’t shake if you tried.

I have the legs of mountains and the call of an eagles cry.

I have roamed this earth before you began, and I birthed you and everything you are.

Do not come to lap water at my feet, if you do not intend to build a home inside the walls of my heart for I know now what I am, and what I am is sacred.