Your Body is a Battleground

Imagine yourself at war
the Empress sitting in her throne
at the center of your chest
commanding all the cells of the body
to march.

Last night I dreamed
I was alone in Africa
with no way to know which way
to the safety of the sea,
which strange food or drink
would make me wretch at the side of the road,
and how to avoid the angry gangs of the dark continent
from casting my used flesh to the side of an unknown path.

It is the worst of times
as I chase myself back over a dozen years
to punish the first failures.
The queen watches, amused
her nose slightly raised to the heavens
knowing cautionary words of hazard or drowning
in self-pity won’t matter here.

Education of the body
is only satisfying when I lash myself
to a doubtful dream—
when I open the profitable pores of my skin
to fortuitous change like well waiting for water
Like eyes hungry for light.

If I dream of Africa
or the myth of the naked man
I always crawl onto with raging compassion
and desire—
it is there reality will erupt
with the force of the wind
against the broken battleground of the body
that aches to disappear-
afraid to be discovered
by constant change.

White flags were never carried by this company of soldiers.

Falling from Grace

Words fall from the branches
of these days
just like October
and the tides of rising winter.

The light is leaving me again in this northern place
and my muse has curled up in his corner
longing to hibernate and hide from love.
He will not turn his eyes
to look at the glory of another autumn
or at the pages I am engraving with his name
on my skin.

He’s cold and starving
while I beg him again
to take my meager offering
of bread and wine.

It hurts no one for him to accept this nourishment
of friendship and loving kindness,
but he refuses me as if I am the enemy.

Beautiful muse--
eyes dark with so much longing,
permit me to wash your dusty feet
and stroke your hands
with anointing oils of healing.

I will touch nothing sacred
on my way to the treasure
of your heart of hearts.
We are bound to that red thread
of each other—
my wrist touching yours
so that the pulse together
has become the fresh sap
waiting to flow
on the first days of the next chance
at spring.

After The First Death

After the first death
at the edge of the world
on an evening with no warning
I was able to recover
the soul I thought I’d lost forever.

Nothing personal
and speaking for myself,
life is over-rated.
The temptation of body and blood
always too rich for my appetite.

Sailing on this open sea of grace,
I’ve learned again
to trust no one
and remember I am
heaven’s only child
of original sin.

On this salty water,
in this warm womb,
I must drink only the clear rain
to satisfy my thirst at midnight
in my lonely bed of memory.

The economy of Eden requires this kind of sacrifice
for the soul to make her way free toward flight
away from the holding of flesh and heavy Earth.

But this death—
this departure from stone and fire
gives me hope that won’t ever be taken away
from my now knowing everything
about the blinking brilliance of light.

Gravity

Consider for a moment—
just a breath or two—
breaking your silence in order
to place your ear
near the center of my chest
and finding the way
to speak to my loneliness.

She is desperate and anxiously waiting
for word of your return
or death—
whichever comes first
is equally appealing.

In the meantime, the taste of rusting iron
on my tongue will not wash away
with the salty rain
and these metal shards have lodged
this coppery banquet,
like fillings in my slowly decaying mouth,
until my head aches
and flashes with silver explosions
until I can no longer stand
the idea of your brilliance
or brown and golden eyes.

Consider forgiving me
for loving you unconditionally.
I know that burden
must be heavy with the responsibility of joy.
Few I have met can balance such a heavenly light
in the small container of the body
without spilling the ego—blood-red
and staining everything it touches.

You are awake in my mind each night
as I hand you the many stones
making up this love affair.
Smooth and round. . .Flat and long.
Pocked with so much heat and longing to weigh us down.
Here I have confidence you have pre-meditated patience
to find the steady place--fulcrum for these outstretched souls
to find the way gravity makes us stronger together.

Epilogue

Siddhartha,
now that I am smoke on the wind
and ashes in the silent burial grounds,

now that I have left you
in the vacant heat
of your solitary cot,

I have forgotten
why it was I longed
for my human form
except for that need to join
with your flesh and your spirit again.

My sweet love,
you are love,
again and again
my hungry lover.
One hundred thousand lifetimes
may not have been enough for us
to extract the essence of this lotus.

Even as you contemplated
my cooling lips
and wrapped my quickly dissolving flesh—
tenderly draped my feet and hands,
tenderly witnessed and blessed
by our son’s tears.
Swaddled in the death garments
and cradled on the rough pyre—
these are the symbols
frightening life with such untruths
and loneliness.

Just as on the last night I made love to you,
I watch you devour my bones and aged humanity—
poisoned by a simple snake.
I see you reach out toward my heart place
just to feel how alive you are, left behind.

The river is your lover now, Siddhartha,
and our son will fly
on the winds of his own Karma.


Farewell Siddhartha
until I find you
breathing quietly and chanting
your beautiful words
in the shade
of the eternal
and golden garden.

Robbed by Buddha

Sometimes Siddhartha’s words
are filled with the jingling laughter
of many golden bracelettes on the wrists
of a clapping woman.

Sometimes his words are chanting prayers
that flow off Siddhartha’s tongue
and get caught in my hair
and in the folds and creases
of my garments.

What do I know of prayer, Siddhartha?
My body has been the temple,
the shrine of adoration
many men have come to
for enlightenment and temporary relief
from all suffering.

And you bring me words
that will not cease chanting joy
to my ripe heart
and to the place within me
of all knowing.

I am confused by this open sky
and light above my head
that magnifies your face
like the Holy Ones.

Oh Siddhartha?
What spell,
what incantations
do you weave around me?

I am captured.
I am goddess
of all things wonderful
rolling off the waterfall
of your beautiful lips.

Do not ask me for my purse.
I have already given it to you.

Woman Alone

The world does not know me
as the one who stands alone—
a woman naked in front of the mirror
solitarily examining the outline of the places
so many have traveled
to find companionship or adventure—
a place of respite
from the drudgery
of the world.

Always I am at the side
or entwined in the grasping embrace
of a man—
the focus of a longing
never fully satisfied.
A hunger for nothing
but more.

In this body
I have been witness
to the payment and gifts
given over for pleasure.
Shining and golden,
I have seen what people
give of themselves
in the search of happiness—
always moving forward
toward the true path.

The world has seen me as accomplice
or crafty conspirator—
the bandit to blame
for misfortune—
the guilt attributed
like a crown of thorns
to be placed on my weary head.

My red blood runs freely
from those punctures
like any other woman
who has been that close
to the danger of truth,
but I walk near the wounded
with no shame,
my back straight and regal
my head held high.

I walk alone
on my own way.
The only way.
For I know
it is into my own eyes
I must glance with loving
at the end of sleep.

I must sit quiet
and content
at the sound
of my own strong heart
beating absolutely alone—
the drum
that guides me home.