The Darkest Nights

December dark nights
don’t bother me.
I need the balance of them
to wrap themselves
like the black winged bird they are,
feathers like lashes covering my eyes,
letting me fall into
depths of the richest despair,
letting me fall asleep,
focus on blackness
that amounts to less than
the imagination can grasp
in her hungry, outstretched palm.

When the darkness comes,
my breath comes easier
as I dive back into the womb-cave of time.
My hands trace the face of memory here—
etch the symbols someone
might someday understand
to mean something
like absolute kindness.

If I place my hand over the heart
of my child self,
the one who wants to call out
to all of our mothers,
I calm her,
rock her to sleep
in this darkness,
and I let her slumber
next to the warmth
of your enormous love.

In the darkness, we turn
to each other as innocents,
wrap our arms around the other,
and become one light
that will be the spark
that will start another fire
and sustain us until spring.

Chinese Story

I'm learning to be the cook today.

The ox sits before me
so still after the slaughter,
his blood pooling
near his cooling neck
as evidence of this crime
of need.

I hold the smooth wooden handle
trying to forget the violence of the blade
and the death
that eventually
brings nourishment.

What will it be like
to plunge the steel
into this flesh
and watch the heavy hind quarters
or a shoulder
drop like clods of dirt
to the floor?

My hands are clean.
I have given thanks
for the soul of this beast.

But what of the sweet smell
of fresh blood swirling around me?
What of the bowels that
tumble warm at my feet
onto the sacred places
of this moment?
Do I wash them away
into the river of dispair
or let them pay witness
to the rest of the quick slices
into the truth of this necessary
sacrifice?

There is nothing to do
but wait for the moment
where the soul leaves his body
and I am called to find the places
between the joints where the blade
touches no bone
and the hand forces
nothing but release.