Pointing North

The day I started to go crazy
I thought an earthquake
was starting in my feet
and trembled her way into my mouth
like bees and electricity.

Soon after I thought I was sprouting wings
with feathers that sparkled and grew stronger
as I saw the light turn purple
when I closed my eyes.

When I was a girl
I admired the danger
and strong beauty of tigers
as they moved in the jungle
of my mind. The mask that hides courage
has turned strength into ugly plastic
that cannot possibly be loved
by any imagination
but of those who are dead.

Now I sit with bandages on my wounds
and bleed all emotion into the flood
of my former self.

I can only travel these lonely,
back roads of despair in silence.
If I stop to look at the gold coins of nature
gathering at my ankles
I am sure the statue of dust I am becoming
will disappear with the next breath
of cold November wind.

The ghosts of lovers and their mothers
will try to collect the tiny pieces that were me
to explain the sacred abandon of space
as if I were a fallen star.
It will not matter.

I am lost
no matter
which way I turn
and it does not help
to admit
that the compass
disguised as a heart,
was shattered
when I took possession
of this body—
before I even knew
how to point
north.