June 10, 2012

(if you found me on my knees in your office would you lock the door and bury me?)

What I mean is, your hair sweeps across your face like wings. A fallen Valkyrie. Your black feathers are dark like deep glebe, glistening or damp, down beneath the surfaces we take for granted. Would you open wide and swallow me like a whirlpool set leagues below the grass, If my earth surrendered to the sweet Crumbling of homecoming?

Were that the case, your great subterranean spring wearing away at my simple dirt, I do wonder about the outcome.
the journey is Not the destination .The sentiment is silly and topical: both are their own and they don’t need to be the same thing to matter. A story has to be told and each part has a time. You would not have the hero fall in love in the beginning. A happy ending does not go in the middle.

What Would our rebirth create ? Elementally, I suppose we mix into mud.

Mud isn’t so bad. For millennia, for thousands of rulers come and gone, for civilization born torn and accelerated, mud has been a balm for skin and soul.

The first vessels to be touched and pulled into life were from mud. Of course we love wood and stone and later fell prey to hammering heated liquid metals. But it was mud that held water, wine, oil. Gods used on mud the same treatment for creating humankind as the other animals. Rub in some spit and blood, pierce a few orifices into the lump, breathe out deep into the little hole that means “mouth”.

[Between you and I] My mouth yearns for your great gusting exhale: shiver your drops in. I am the most fertile of ground and have nothing to grow.

Black wings, kind eyes made kinder by the way they barely flinch and are constantly alight with a vigorous intelligence (vigilance?) and hunger. Your heart shines out of The Soft Reprieves. Your voice is so clear, your legs so strong. I can’t imagine a world you’re not in now.

I think it was Mars who nudged our threads together when I paid homage to all the gods. I asked each to instruct me on how best to honor them. I prayed and they gave me lungfuls of air, vistas As gifts for my clear brown eyes and directives that were Half clear and half buried. Together we set timers on alarms and traps then distributes exact keys for exact locks.

You are the second gift I have realized. Artemis took a good laugh at my expense and sent me a hound made of moonlight and blood. Athena patiently touches pieces at a time routinely… I don’t know her plan. Aphrodite hasn’t returned my phone calls

..Ares sent you.
I was born on a Tuesday. He took a kind eye on his favorite daughter: a girl with a stout heart not built to explode now but whose past lives were devoted to him and the great War. Circles and circles and circles again he is the tooth and nail which call and tug: searingly close but ever out of reach.
I love men. I just commented over a cider to my brother that I want one. The warmth and strength and otherness.
But I am a woman who speaks in one language better than the others and it is Woman on my tongue.

Ares is smarter and kinder than the leftover stragglers like to acknowledge. Maybe not many bother to hear him when they query. Or don’t bother to ask him anything at all. But he gave me you.

You’re successful, creative, both wife and mother… And you’re interesting! Alive and intense and strong and available. I didn’t know a woman could do all that and still have sparks in her eyes. I thought the monotony and responsibility dulled the fire. But now I know and it feels a little


the tide coming in.


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