Wanderling❁

held back

 

---

the maker of my own ruin

is in the mirror

begging someone else to change

never considering

that I can be the first

to change instead.

I can drown anger

with honeyed love

the maker of sweetness

from empty words.

the maker of my own paradise

speaks in a drum roll

growing from the heart.

---

 

 

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"no!"

she claws skyward through my gut

rip in the stomach

wound beneath the chest

scratch in my throat, make me cry blood.

her upward retribution

is searching for the shaft of light

the one that breaks up any

gathering of tiny conspiring demons

when a mouth opens to speak.

they flee, she flies.

like war, she arrives

covered in filth, disappointed in her maker but

alive.

licking whatever parts of her that continue to drip

wondering at shocked faces who might be

learning in the moment

that a woman can be deity for a two-letter word.

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standing on the shoulders of giant matriarchs

towering women in glittering saris,

holding wooden spoons and babies (like me)

maybe I will be one who gets to choose

and with my choice, I will return to source

where God is creating space and life

almost easier than her breathing

---

 

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---

sunlight, why do you pretend to be my enemy

wind, why do you fight to steal my warmth

 

"sister, why do you question yourself"

"we are creation trying to reunite"

---

 

first love

---

though the silent ache

sinks deeper

with every dream

gentle night

made of stars

can never regret, being

the crimson sky

and neither can I

---

 

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I ride to her edge on my ghost horses

and beg her to take me as I am

the ritual begins, turning the ocean into a vessel

for secrets, my previous lives

desires, worries

I empty them into the sea

watch her swallow what I could not

and she gives repentance with the tide

---

 

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all the hours I have spent

fighting over which me I should be

sitting on the shores of my own world

I might have been running instead

spinning dreams, seeds into flowers

holding my grandmother's hand

and speaking the only words that matter

but here I am, now

too tired to fight with my selves

concerned more with which me I could be

if I can just use these hands

during the next blood red sunrise,

and create a house of clouds

to hold all the chatter, and focus,

on only being, being, being

---

 

photo: Monastery beach, California, december 2020

tender heart

 

 

---

silent spirits, forgive me

for disturbing your temple of snow

I speak my weakness, hunger

to walk, to see, to feel

beauty frozen in time

and to never grow old

but you, your arms hunched over

in little mountains of indifference

or houses of pain

I want to whisper to you, how much

I regret, all the memories I ache to undo

but say nothing

only emotion echoes from my bones

rattling the trees

graciously, snow swallows all the sound

---

 

photo: alpine lakes wilderness, Washington, november 2020

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---

rain is blue, and medicinal

wandering is, too

rocking back and forth in my grief

finding a soft spot to sleep

and before dreaming, I swell

empty myself open

receiving hollow sounds

of old bird calls and

a thousand stories

resting in the mortar

to be ground, by dreams

back to life

--

 

photo: Crater Lake National Park, October 2020

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---

he was never an easy child to love

"but I'm grateful that you do."

and her fears were higher than his reach

"but I feel safer when you're near."

my angry words were tears

that never turned to water

when I was young.

"but thank you for hearing me."

I'm sorry.

I love you.

Please forgive me.

Thank you.

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