Remembering How to Fly
for Joni Hullinghorst

On my darkest days I fear
that kind of oblivion,
fading from my mind each day
into a darkness that can’t hold the light
of even one day in view.

In that slow dawn toward nothingness
what would my sisterhood remember?

The touch of a child skin,
the crescendo of October,
the beads of sweat on the whispering
lips of a wide awake lover,
the milky smell of the ocean.

This hush of loss haunts me,
strips the flesh from my bones
leaving me picked clean of hope.

Who am I to call on the muse now,
scold her for not staying with us
in this garden ready for harvest?
How can I be angry she planted the seeds,
pulled witch weed from between the rows,
called down the rains from the highest clouds,
and even watched the blossoms into fullest color,
just to leave us here, alone with the unforbidden fruit?

Instead, I am left here with all the other dreamers,
waiting for our turn to forget
the pull of gravity
and remember how to fly.

Surrendering

Tonight the moon slices
blood orange across a harvest sky
sinking beneath the horizon
like some lucky ship
and I am reminded of the wetness
deep and dark inside
the folds of my sweetest skin.

I find hope in this softness of night,
her velvet covers smoothing
out the rough hands of disappointment
and rage at these awake days.
This good mother of night
leaves me alone
to the sound of crickets
and tree frogs,
and to the forbidden thoughts that pass
unmistaken by the knowing belly
of the mind.

Stars like I’ve never seen before
populate the sky with the lightness of forever.

You could take me here
in the open fields
on the last days of summer.

I would surrender
everything to you. I would
give you my children, all of them,
and their bright, shining souls, for just one
lifetime of absolute rapture
found in the hems of this red dress.

It would all be worth it
to have you press your cool lips
to the edges of this human gown.

The Destination

In this year I have chosen
to be fully alive
where the moons turn
like pages of a book
toward the ending of my myth,
I want to put my ear
to the center of your chest,
kiss you exactly above your heart,
and set my ear back at that place,
listening like a woman
waiting to hop a midnight train,
feeling the vibrations
that will explain
how I could squander
the brown and black of your eyes
as if they were blue
or even emerald green.

When the snow comes,
and it won’t be very long—
we will build the city
in which I can love you
without the tall walls and heavy doors
of deception.
There is glass and light
as the train pulls into the station
and the conductor calls out our names,
punches our tickets
and proclaims
with a wink and whispers,
“The journey is the destination.”

Knowing How

The heart knows how to love—

this morning when I woke
mine was racing toward
the face of the universe

arms open wide
and ready to embrace
the unconditional
through me.

And what was I
asked for in return?

Each heart
is given the gift
to expand indefinitely,
without boundary or fear.

Here the sun still rises
and the crescent moon sets
ushering each loving day forward
toward another end

wiser and more sweet than the last.
This is what knowing how to love
becomes, the breaking of light

and offering it to the birds
one seed at a time at the feeder,
one soul at a time with each breath,

each naming of a child
as she is called
to the body of another human life

know just how
each sweet kiss of the lover
imagined,
lasts an eternity.

"We look forward to the time when the Power of Love will
replace the Love of Power. Then will our world know the
blessings of Peace."

*William E. Gladstone 1809-1888 British Statesman

Why I Have A Crush On You, UPS Man

Why I Have A Crush On You, UPS Man

you bring me all the things I order
are never in a bad mood
always have a jaunty wave as you drive away
look good in your brown shorts
we have an ideal uncomplicated relationship
you’re like a cute boyfriend with great legs
who always brings the perfect present
(why, it’s just what I’ve always wanted!)
and then is considerate enough to go away
oh, UPS Man, let’s hop in your clean brown truck and elope !
ditch your job, I’ll ditch mine
let’s hit the road for Brownsville
and tempt each other
with all the luscious brown foods —
roast beef, dark chocolate,
brownies, Guinness, homemade pumpernickel, molasses cookies
I’ll make you my mama’s bourbon pecan pie
we’ll give all the packages to kind looking strangers
live in a cozy wood cabin
with a brown dog or two
and a black and brown tabby
I’m serious, UPS Man. Let’s do it.
Where do I sign?

“Why I Have A Crush On You, UPS Man” by Alice N. Persons, from Don’t Be A Strange

I am just back from a couple of weeks of vacation. It is hard to believe July is racing to a finish. I was at a beautiful NH lake and was able to share time and space with family and friends, eat great food, talk about great ideas and thoughts, write poetry, finish my exams, and enjoy time away from the regular routine of home.

This seventh month of my journey with “A Year to Live” is supposed to be about creating a place to die and leave this world peacefully. Creating a shrine of what my life is about has been wonderful. I have flowers and books that have helped me think clearly. I have candles and a Buddha, a crucifix and a mirror, quotes and words important to me. I don’t really have photos at the shrine areas (yes, there is more than one) because I already have so many photos of my friends and family around. I feel pretty unattached to things and people right now. The shrines, in some weird way, feel like grounding places for me. I can notice that I am here and of a much greater experience and universe at the same time. It feels so simple and freeing. . .a celebration really.

Here’s a draft of a poem I wrote last week. I think it works for month seven.

Nobody knows
I’ve died this year,
that my body is returning to the earth,
slipping into the water of the miracle.
Mile after mile, no longer dipping just a toe
to check the temperature
of this pleasure.
My head is pointing toward the grave.
My feet walking away from home.
I have begun living in code—the one
where I can rock in the boat of quiet hours,
sealing my inner harbor,
safe from any storm.

There is no more trying to surprise God.
The aspects of Eve that live in my days
and in my nights,
in my blood and in each of the bones
of my ribs, each surrounding and guarding
my heart. . .
These pronounce each syllable,
each beat loud and clear.

I am a woman who has turned the corner
and can let go of the mystery. Instead,
I know I am the mystery.
I have understood with each conversation
the new language I speak.
I alone know the power of these words.
I awake with symbols of birds
and fish etched into my skin,
and the flowers—
the lily and the lotus bloom
in the glorious sound of the music
flowing from my soul.

This birth, from the child curled within,
stretches and offers her hand in thanksgiving
toward the opening universe.