Watching the rise and fall
of my delicate
internal empire,
James sits on the bed
while I wail.
Each passing hour
becomes a private storm
of old, buried thunder
let loose to rattle the bed frame
and latches
of my mind.
He gently watches,
weathering the gail of
uncatalogued memories
flung out into the yard
coverend in pounding hail.
Branches whip over wires
and fold a deep bow
to the soil.
Window glass cracks
basement floods
and the lights
I once knew,
blink out.
We have been whittled down again.
Gee the wild cat
ayurvedic oil medicine
rips through the rings of my lifetime
with each drag of her
giant clawed paw
down the trunk of me,
a motionless
jungle tree.
mountainous river rocks
extend thick arms
to collect all the grief
I’ve ever held,
in a suspended, twisting pool.
I am the diver, the witness
taken under.
I am not the woman
who arrived from new york
a month ago, floating through winter.
I am not that woman.
I have removed
old coats of my mother
worn shoes
of who I thought i had become.
Now barefoot
homeless
clawed awake.
I am the mantra.
The mantra used to call God
who’s soft breath
over the last remaining ember,
calls it back to life,
dispels darkness.
The mantra the illuminates
Father Sky
in my fresh heart.
A newborn fire child
to rest in the arms
of the divine
and forgiving
Mother Earth.