CHANTELL FOSS
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TENDERNESS
April 23/2020
Blown rose awaits midnights
when her skirts and her face and her lacy flesh
will be bitten by frost

It’s way too early for that

Her bud is still tight now

She is precocious and she is doomed to wait

She will need patience
to come to know herself as she was meant

She will need such restraint
to know herself blowing, blowing
blown

She hangs back - see her -  in a women’s way
​
Out of the way

Awaiting a young frost’s milk teeth
as mother awaits
as mother awaits, too full, 
the nibbles of her nursling

She attends 
swaying but not falling
abides until the season can come 
of the true and final essence
essence atomized
all the way 
and all the way

Abides until perfume 
should be spent and spent all spent
from the hollow tender bowls
from the pit

Through yarning unreeling unravelling fargoing months
of being peeled back slow by sun
tissue by tissue
and unspun
and undone

Through eons of showing the colours between the colours 
she waits to arrive at some kind of end
when no one comes tunnelling for pollen anymore
and no one plucks

Hers is the age when no one is asking
even in the backs of their deflowered minds
Love me or love me not?

Hers is the age when she is so bitten 
that no one would think 
to steal her head
and so she is left
to nod it down
over her milked and given self

​Here I come she says
​here I come to the end that waited for me
here I come to the arms that open

And when I come
​I come
chewed
​abandoned
blown
​
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Tenderness Wave
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  • Home
  • 5Rhythms classes
    • about 5Rhythms
    • resources
    • Victoria classes
  • Open Floor
    • about Open Floor
  • Yoga classes
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  • Communal practice points
  • Workshops
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