Attachment

I have begun
to look into distances
as I approach the center
of a life colorfully decorated
with the united reminders
of decay.

It is natural—
a selected intelligence
that awakens just in time
to give away
all I know
in reverse order
of the gathering.

The stories of my brothers
and my invisible sisters
are alive in me
like fire and wicked wind
the suffering is caught in my breath
and fall like the inevitable avalanche
in my bones—
the sound deafening
within the silences.

And yet I am called to listen
to the dead and the forgotten.
I see their faces
and feel their hands upon my soul
when I know not what to do.
The comfort of the saints
and sages settles around
the same flame for light
in the unbearable darkness—
in the cold we will know
as the longest winter.

If kindness is my only possession
before spring arrives in the color
of tulips and daffodils,
let me have the wisdom
and the grace
to give it all away.

On that day
wash my face clean
and remember
that it is exactly
as I have told you
and the gift that I have plucked
from between my ribs
so that I might place hope
in the palm
of your hungry hand
is the only meal
you will ever desire
again.

Taken

Take me
by the hand
one more day,
one more mysterious day
where love and kindness
look me in the eye
longing to get lost inside
this body and in the light
that changes color at the edge
of white robes
bursting into gold.

Take me
as if it were the first time
you’d traced the lines of my face
with fingers trembling,
one more time the beginner
fumbling with fear
you might not gather the strength
to follow bliss offered with beauty
by the cycle of this lifetime.

Take me
as if it were the last time
you would kneel before me,
place your face in the dust
of my skin
and bless the moment
by inhaling.

Here is your temple.
Here is the warmth of the spirit
that brings you to the communion table
with all living things.
Here the Earth rises up
and shivers
at the base of the spine
and climbs the inevitable path
to the crown
you wear so well.

Take your seat.
Take your breath.
Take my hand
so that we might
join the family of souls
who await our arrival
and smile as we fly
freshly washed
and clean with laughter
in this final escape.

Sacrificing the Son

For Bill and his beloved Sam

Stand up tall,
chest out, voice strong
when you call the name of your son
home for the night.
This song of a father rings
long past the hour of reckoning.
You have made this call a million times
as the light leaves the sky
and twilight forces the eyes
to see the tiny remnants of far away
glimmers of a past
we can never know for sure.

The silence in your ears aches.

You know what is coming
with each howl into the pending dark—
know the pit in the core of consciousness—
that danger is right at the shoulder
of your son
whispering the loud
and raspy death call.

This is not a child’s game
of hide and seek
where anyone can play dead.
The stakes of being found
in the rocks and scrabbling bushes
are for keeps.

Flying on the wings
woven by looking fear in the face—
seeing the souls of the departed
like they are gathered friends—
gives you no comfort today.

The wide and healing ocean
is not big enough to wash you clean,
nor does it allow you to emerge
with the joy of knowing hope
in a future you cannot see.

Hold this impermanent boy
to your wide open heart one more time
and then cast him into the waters
like ashes—
the essence of who he is
will be all that this day allows you to love,
all that any day
will ever offer again.

Tendrils

Tendrils of the world
curl at my neck,
gently tightening their hold
like something beautiful
and green as morning glories
ready to burst into blossom
or explode into a fiery rage
with smoke twisting
into the cracks
of a door jam,
delighted to damage
the illusion of safety
with one mighty puff.

Inhale with hope or confidence
only to collapse as pink as a lung
on the death of letting go
unsure of where the next meal of pure air
might come from.

There is no mother touch
on my locks
after these cold rains.
No comb to separate tangles,
straightening the mess
into neat rows
so that I might transform overnight
into the beautiful one
everyone wants.

Instead, I ache,
tossed about
and snarled,
ready to shave
the attachments off at the roots
and wait to see
what might grow back from the sharp stubble
when there is really nothing left
to lose—

The Belly Remembers

After the banging pain
of the secret language of the body,
after years of studying
other people’s neediness—
putting my own voice
often at the back of the line,

it occurs to me
that any normal heart,
even with delayed reactions
and stunted growth,
can become drunk
with light.

It might be like going to the punch bowl
too many times, fetching happiness
for someone else
and without even noticing
in the dancing through the crowds
of merrymakers and observing
other wiser women from the corners
where wallflowers bloom

I am not living in the house
where a slow death is certain,
but instead intoxicated with eyes open,
with the belly warm and full
and remembering
these tremors,
this convulsing quake
is unexpected joy,

laughter in remembering
exactly who I am.

Civil Twilight

At the blue hour,
at the union where night and day
have come together in exquisite love
to bow humbly
to the light that generates
at the edges of the ocean,

I have traveled
across the distances
of belief and healing
to witness the offerings
of bride to groom.

She washes his feet.
He gathers the gentle face
into his hands;
kisses eyes,
cheek,
and the full and pink
lips of the beloved

just before she bursts
into morning.

Bear Cave Dreaming

The fall nights
have begun to curl
around my body
in bear cave dreaming.

The thick fur and comfort of these skins
breathe softly at the back of my neck,
spooning into the small of my aching back,
washing away the drought and the heat of summer
with the slow, gentle rains
of unconditional love.

On flickering days like these
we absorb the nourishment
of moss and acorns,
pine and granite,
and the encouragement of geese
calling in the highest blue.

The days shorten as we turn again
into the constant change,
eclipsed unexpectedly by the rejection
of the sweet abundance of the sun,
heading south to be buried
deep inside the earth.

It is no wonder
the heat of our awake
and glowing fires
have come to the stone womb
in order to gather the necessary strength
for the long sleeps that bring freedom

found in the humming silences
of the mother
living in the dividing cells
of our marrow--

in the multiplication of love
we open our eyes and see
shining clusters of truth
in the smiling face,
at the upturned corners of the mouth
of the most beloved--

in the divine yawning that signals
this launching into the endless flight of slumber
we notice our slowing breath
and gaze with joy at the weightlessness
of moment after moment
of release.