Being alone became comfortable,
like that warm yet predictable just out of the dryer
pair of jeans.
It birthed itself inside of
my biological mother’s uterus,
where waves pressed isolation, tossed depression
in need of her touch on soft baby folds–
I longed to know her smell.
I discovered the connection to Grandma’s Baldwin
piano keys, how smooth indented spots cooled
rough edges with sounds as they glided
on fingertips down into my body with
The same connection to paper, when I pressed letters
on mother’s Remington typewriter–
eyes closed, words strummed ethereal hums.
The love affair between sounds and words stretched
toes against the basement floor,
welcomed Elton John, Roberta Flack, bounced
rhythms from stereo speakers
where I danced solo for hours.