a conversation
what sharp edge has honed me into
a spiky mess alone and lonely,
i know.
those thoughts circling, buzzards or some other
opportunistic predator,
familiar (like a witch's),
ever present.
there is perhaps some other version
with clear skies.
some place parallel maybe without the squawking claws,
with quiet thoughts or something resembling peace.
self unobsessed with self destruct, brain able to maintain equilibrium.
i would like to meet you (me) (you) (because could you be me without the claws).
i would like to taste what you became with the same life but different brain.
what choices we could make. what shapes the clouds could take.
what will you say then when we meet,
would you even know what to say
without the endless litany prayer to god knows what for silence.
you in your quiet.
to meet me, free.
devotion
you are breath. life itself. you,
the hand that grips my heart and makes it beat.
gripped. made.
knelt at your altar, forgetting to feel anything
but devotion, ignoring blood or the small sounds
small breaths or cries they're all the same to you
or do you even hear them anymore, these sounds of sacrifice.
do you listen or only listen when i dip fingers in still-warm heartsblood
and paint my skin with all of your names.
can you hear my cries only with accompanying screams and please
please please
prayers from the altar, upon and beside.
we both beg for redemption
kintsugi
There are cracks in the pattern, there are
chipped places.
The delicate lines that formed your face,
the fragile borders of your soul, they have
been broken.
There is beauty in the damage.
There is worth in the rough edges, there
is room for growth and newness in the places
where you once were smooth but now
are jagged, with gaps, pieces missing, but
there is hope in the molten gold that holds you
together now, stronger than your porcelain face alone
could ever have been.
You are bigger now, bigger by a hairline fracture,
by a lightning-bolt sundering you in half,
by the width of a pinky nail missing and refilled
with preciousness, with luminous soft strength.
Once you were whole and smooth and untested,
now you are whole again and again, remade with each crack
into something golden.
Gorgon
I am beautiful.
Face: delicate, ephemeral.
Lips: tender.
Cheeks: rosy with life.
My eyes are warmth and promise.
I have lured men and women to their ends,
little deaths and big deaths in my arms.
I have loved so strongly, so deeply,
I have pulled them to me with my love, and
I have loved them all, every one of them.
I loved them all.
I love them still, the collection of them
that surrounds me, silent,
and I think they love me too,
in their cold eternal way.
I hope they love me too,
all frozen in their moment of ecstacy,
all frozen in their final gasps and sighs,
before their lungs seized and captured that air,
before their hearts hardened,
before I cast them, eternally in stone
before I met their eyes with mine
and their yielding tender skin stiffened.
and now they stand around me, an orchestra
of silent moans and cries of joy,
a thousand pairs of eyes screwed tight or flown open wide,
a thousand parted mouths,
a thousand heaving breasts.
They are beautiful, and they will never tell
that
I am beautiful, too.
trying
i woke up like i was vibrating
there was a scream stuck in my throat, rattling around in my chest pushing against my ribs compressing my lungs scraping and cutting
I’m a different frequency today, thoughts are hot and quick and sharp and one after another after another in quick succession like gunshots or the teeth on a saw blade
Part of me is curled up on the blanket at the foot of the bed as small as i can be and
Part is outside running somewhere running to give reason to my chest feeling drained and dry and empty or so, so full it will burst
Or standing in the grass panting looking around furtively because i’m being chased and it feels like i am, constantly pursued by something bigger than me and sharper and brighter in the way horrific things are made of bright white light so you can’t look at it, so you can’t know it but you feel it and it burns itself into your brain and you taste metal in your mouth and you’d spit out the blood but your mouth is so dry your tongue rasps against your teeth
thoughts are loud, screaming nothing into my head, shouting about the AC cutting on or an acorn hitting the roof, nothing, nothing, but it’s so loud.
Thoughts run like molten rock down pathways winding and insubstantial or far away,
Detailing possible apocalypses and catastrophes, or just arguments snide comments headaches hunger.
I follow against my will, find myself ankle deep in red and stuck helplessly rehearsing and repeating the what if what if what if beat of my heart that whispers harmony with the scream still trapped.
The Mountain
We never wanted to climb the mountain. We had been told stories since we were children, tried to convince ourselves that they were just that, just stories. Don’t climb the mountain, parents and elders would tell us all, gathered around the fire in those dark evenings when fall begins to give way to winter. You’ll never come back down. They never explained further, never said exactly what happens to those who climb the mountain. Only that they never returned.
One warm day at the end of summer, the rain began. At first it was a normal summer rain, welcomed by the farmer’s fields and by my sister and I, and the other children, who liked to play in the puddles. The village was pleased, watching the green things that they depended on for life soaking up the rich wetness. Soon the ground turned to mud, dirtying everyone’s clothes. Parents allowed their children out, but reluctantly, knowing the mess they'd have to clean up when they returned. After a few days, people began to murmur. The rain wasn’t letting up, was showing no signs of slowing. Heavy silver clouds had hung above the village for days now, not moving, no wind to push them on. Water began to run in little streams in the alleys between houses, catching in pond-like puddles in front of doors and in the town square. When a full week passed, the worry set in. This was unusual, very unusual; storms never stayed this long, and especially not so unchanging, so relentless. The market hadn’t been open in a week and most people had begun to stay indoors. We’d even stopped wanting to play in puddles. The novelty had worn off.
Day followed day and the rain continued. The water level started to rise, the well overflowing into the square, pathways becoming impossible to use. Water streamed through the village now, having developed a strong current. It washed past the houses carrying rocks and pieces of thatching from roofs. No one went outside anymore, except us, who would huddle underneath oilcloth and run for their friend’s houses, trying to break up the dreary monotony with visits. Eventually the parents put a stop to that as the water level rose even more. It was too dangerous. Only the adults would go out now, sometimes, to do things that had to be done. Father would venture out to the barn to check on the animals. We couldn’t let them out into the pasture, the water and mud were too deep. All he could do was check on them, try to get a little milk for us, salvage some eggs from the chicken coop.
I heard our parents talking one night, while Sara and I pretended to sleep in the loft above them. They were worried about food, about how we would manage. It was the end of summer and no one knew how long this cursed rain would last, if we would even be able to take in the harvest. Father was worried more that the harvest would be ruined, that it wouldn’t matter if we could bring it in because there wouldn’t be anything worth bringing. I listened through the cracks in the wooden floor, worried myself, because Sara had been coughing for a few days, a scary, wet cough that had only worsened. There was no doctor in our village. The closest was a half a day’s walk away, in the next valley, and there was no way to reach them with the weather like it was.
After three weeks we all got restless, short with one another. I spent my time in front of the window. I wanted a fire, but Father only allowed one at night, because our wood supply was dwindling and winter would be approaching too soon. So I sat at the window and read, or worked on my stitching, trying to take my mind off the rain. Mother was busy nursing Sara constantly; her sickness had gotten worse and worse, too warm with fever, and weak with coughing. At night sometimes I heard Mother coughing too, but she did it quietly into her pillow, and never during the day. I saw how drawn her face became, though. The dark circles under her eyes.
Father decided that we needed a fire to ward off the damp, and for that we needed firewood. Mother begged him not to go but he was resolute, layering oilcloth and rubber. He kissed her hard, looked at us, fixed his waterproof hat firmly on his head, and left. I’ll never forget that moment.
We waited. Mother sat by the door, rocking Sara in her arms, as if she could will him to come back to her more quickly. Daylight faded and there was still no sign of him. All we heard was the rushing of water outside the door and the pounding of rain on the roof. Eventually she sent me and Sara to bed. We slept fitfully, full of worried nightmares. When we woke it was still dark, but then, it seemed to always be dark. Little sun got through those leaden clouds. I peeked over the loft’s railing to see Mother still sitting in the chair by the door, still rocking. Then there was a sound we hadn’t heard in almost a month: someone knocked on the door. Mother shot up and flung it open, admitting a torrent of water that swirled around her feet and threatened to knock her down. There in the feeble dawn light were three men, the youngest three elders, and one of them held something. My mother wailed, an unearthly sound, and something in me broke. The elder handed her my father’s hat. They said nothing; there was nothing they could say. She sunk to the floor, melted against the door frame in water higher than her waist. The elders turned and fled back to the relative safety of their own homes, but Mother stayed in the open doorway, letting the water rush in and cover everything inside. When I realized she wasn’t going to move I flew down the ladder and pulled her inside, fought the door closed. I struggled to get her up, get her into drier clothes, into bed. Then I held Sara and rocked and stared at the rain outside the window.
It only took a few days for it to become apparent that things were not going to get better. Mother’s sickness had set in and between it and her heart-sickness she couldn’t do for herself, much less for little Sara. I took care of both as best I could but I was losing my strength. One day I gathered all the food we had, and then separated it into portions, and put mine and Sara’s into a rucksack. I explained to Mother what I was doing. I had to leave. The village was drowning and no one knew how to stop it, but the village in the next valley might be able to help us, rescue some of us, at least. She tried to fight me, tried to convince me of the danger, but I knew. And she was too weak. Eventually she relented, knowing that even if we didn’t make it to the village to get help, at least we’d be making for higher ground and a better chance of survival, because both of us knew that the only way out of our valley was going to be to climb the mountain. So I strapped Sara to my front and the rucksack to my back, and we set out.
The water in the streets pulled at me, trying to drag me down and away with the current. I fought, harder than I ever have, hearing Sara’s little cries as she pressed her face against my chest. I pushed in the direction of the mountain, looming out of the wet sky to the east. It seemed like it took us days to get out of the village. Sometimes I had to bounce a little in the water, to keep Sara’s head above it. Somehow, eventually, we made it to the village edge, to the place where the ground started to slope upwards. I couldn’t see the incline, the water was too high, but I could feel it as I started to climb it, gratefully noticing the water level creep further back down my body. Slowly I climbed, starting to worry about how heavy Sara was. I hadn’t figured it would be easy, but now I was wondering if I would be able to carry her the whole way.
We climbed. The rain started to let up the further we got from the village, but only slightly. I could still barely see where I was going. As the day wore on I started slipping, having to catch myself on tree trunks. When the gloom around us began darkening, I decided we had to stop for the night. Sara cried that she was hungry. I found a tree with a relatively thick canopy to try to keep us as dry as possible, and we huddled under the oilcloth together, sharing a hunk of bread and cheese. Eventually Sara’s head started nodding and she fell asleep curled up against me. My night was spent watching the darkness in vain, keeping a terrified watch.
We passed several days like that, and they started blurring together. Soon I’d lost track of how many days we’d been walking. The ground seemed to slope ever upwards, the rain seemed to fall ever down. It was always the same shade of grey, except for when it got late, when the grey bled into blackness. A week must have passed, at least, because we ran out of food. I showed Sara where to find berries, which were safe to eat, and we collected them as we walked upwards, staining our mouths with purple as we tried to stave off the gnawing hunger that had set in. I stumbled, the fog in my head harder even to navigate than the misty rainy darkness that had become my whole existence. Sara was quiet now. She seemed to understand that crying wouldn’t help, that no matter how much she begged I didn’t have food to give her, or milk, or a warm bed. She didn’t want to get down and walk at all anymore, didn’t want to look for berries. All I was capable of doing was putting one foot heavily in front of the other, dragging both of us toward some supposed sanctuary that I wasn’t sure even existed anymore. But I didn’t have a choice.
One day the ground didn’t rise to meet my foot. I almost fell; I had been expecting to step upwards like I had been for what seemed like forever. After a moment I had my balance back, and raised my eyes to look around us. The slope had ended, the ground had leveled out. We had reached the peak. If I’d had more energy I’d have cheered, but I only managed a weak prayer of gratitude and a kiss on Sara’s head. Then we started down. It was almost as hard as going up; I kept slipping in the mud churned up by the heavy rain, and fell on my back a few times, setting off a soft stream of wailing from Sara. Even with the difficulty, it was faster going, and we made much better time going down. Days past, they must have, even though I wasn’t aware of them. All I knew was walking. After a while, I don’t know how long, I had another shock. The rain started fading. It was slow, so slow I almost didn’t notice. But gradually the hammering on my back lightened, the blurriness in front of my eyes sharpened. And one day, it stopped altogether. I cried, tears streaming down my face. The world sounded so quiet without the thundering of rain, I hadn’t realized just how loud it was. One of the clouds moved a little and a beam of sunlight poked through, resting on Sara. It was beautiful. We kept walking. I figured the village had to be close, and they had to be all right there; after all, it seemed the rain hadn’t drowned them like it had our village. I pressed on, allowing the spark of hope to rekindle inside me.
I stopped, sniffed the air. Yes, I was sure of it. I smelled a wood fire. I broke out into a run, calling up energy from somewhere deep within me. I saw roofs, chimneys, and smoke curling from several. It was the village! Finally, we had reached the village, and there were people in it that could help us, that could feed us. I wiped happy tears from my eyes, tears I hadn’t realized I’d been crying, as I reached the pathway that led to the village. Then I stopped, confused. It was strange, something about it was strange. It was too. . . familiar. It seemed as if I knew this place, far better than I should know a place I’d been to only once, when I was very young. I knew that the baker lived here, that around the corner was the blacksmith and beyond him the farmers’ fields began. I knew this village.
It was my village.
I didn’t know how, we must have gotten turned around somehow on the mountain and gone back down, but that was impossible, I had never turned around, it was impossible. Yet here we were, standing beside the baker’s house, smelling loaves of warm brown bread in his oven. Then my confusion turned to joy, because the village was fine, it was dry, there were no rapids rushing through the alleys, no pond in the square. I heard cows mooing, people talking inside their houses, the blessed sounds of everyday life that I had been afraid I would never hear again. My fear lost, I took off down the street, making turns almost too fast, until I reached the most familiar place of all: our house. There was smoke curling from the chimney, and I could see my mother’s shape through the window, standing at the kitchen counter, likely chopping some vegetables for dinner. It didn’t occur to me to wonder about any of this or how it had happened, I was so elated to be back. I ran through the gate and up to the door, pulled at the handle. It was locked, so I started banging and calling out to her, calling out that we were home, finally home, that I’d missed her so much. After a moment I stopped, confused. I watched my hands hit the wood, but the fists that should have boomed against the door made no sound at all. I heard my voice clear as a bell, but it seemed like my mother did not. I tried again, tried hitting the door, pulling at it in vain, begging it to open. I couldn’t understand why she would lock us out like this, why I couldn’t get inside. Finally my energy died and I stopped pounding at the door, stopped yelling. I stood there panting, tears running down my face, confused. Then I heard it, a voice behind me, a low rumbling full of warmth that sent chills down my spine. It was my father, calling out to my mother. I turned and saw him standing at the gate, as if nothing had happened, as if he had never been taken by the water. I cried out to him, reached toward him, but he didn’t so much as glance at me. He didn’t hear me. The door opened behind me and my mother rushed out, all smiles, ran into his arms. She’d run right past us, she hadn’t seen us either. Unbidden, words from the stories told around fires came back to me, whispering in my head.
Don’t climb the mountain. You will never come back down.