wyrdwind

Sacred Heart

With some sensitivity

you may see it.

Expressions, quirks, gestures

and movements

in people of all sorts.

Snapshots.

The same child their mother saw.

Some babe in a basket

the current carried off.

You should know

every day a mother says goodbye

a little more.

Prays the hands that take you

as tender as hers.

If it’s in my palm,

I am careful.

She said I came to her

in a dream of a sweeter before

and told her

his time on Earth was done.

She was wailing

before she woke up.

Novena

Nine is quite a number,

not for the faint of heart,

worlds on the tree of life,

days Odin spent upside down

so the runes might reveal themselves.

Ninth is Hagalaz, Hela and Holda, the violent storm.

Cups, pentacles, wands, and swords.

Wishes granted, garden of thought,

bitter struggle and dark night of the soul.

Hermit with lantern turned inward—

cliffnotes, my scholarly approach.

Well here’s one you haven’t heard:

Oya the Orisha,

mother of nine dead children,

each a different color

in the rainbow of her skirt.

She is a warrior, a lashing tempest.

Harbinger of sweeping change,

guardian of the village market

as well as the cemetery gates.

Mighty winds.

A witch. Ferocity and gentleness.

Some would consider

her gifts a punishment.

My purple candles

are a nod to this.

Crossroads

where a woman decides

between comfort, attention, acceptance,

or respect.

White Rabbit

He recalled a childhood

embittered by his father’s hand.

His mama found the strength,

and into the woods they went.

Homeless? A camping trip.

Clean, warm, and fed.

She foraged, trapped, and worked

someplace he wouldn’t find.

Told wonderful stories

every night before bed—

shadows on the ceiling of a tent.

He wasn’t afraid.

She took those black eyes

and his mama made

chandeliers from what remained.

Branches and lanterns

in the back of their van.

He changed his surname as a man,

so I took the compliment

when he said we were the same.

When she said she’d claim me

if I ever found a serious someone

but was too ashamed to bring him home.

She’s who I have in mind

when I say:

May you be to your child

a welcoming wilderness. You know,

mamas are the real magicians.

Loved One

Lord I shed a thug tear

for this small female jaguar

trying to make it work

in a jungle somewhere.

She was so young.

Fucked two assholes

so her single cub

would be left alone.

Every hunt was struggle bus,

but she always pulled through.

Then one day she came home

and her baby was gone.

Some snake swallowed it whole.

She tracked it down

and ripped it apart

just to consume

its body herself.

She let the snake rot.

Heard its little bones crunch.

That’s what it tastes like

in your mouth.

Postpartum

Watch me

go to bat for the baby killers.

Sethe and Medea did nothing wrong,

fight me about it. Better to die

unmolested, your mother’s sons,

than to needlessly suffer, to be groomed

by a master or father, to turn

around and inflict that same hurt.

Give me

my lady annihilators. Full scorched earth.

Boudican Destruction Horizon.

Rome can fuck itself.

I’ll have it burn.

She worked sixty hours

and he left dirty diapers on the floor,

stay at home what for? Gaming on the couch.

Newborn next room crying,

Nonverbal banging on the tub,

and if she thought for some long minutes

to hold him under,

bitch I don’t judge.

Underdogs

Must have chugged

Huginn and Muninn’s draft in the womb,

got 0.50% on the big bad swan juice,

salt enough to swallow sins like the ocean,

crumple steel ships just tin cans

at these depths.

Come home to mama.

Now, we were all tired,

four tens manual labor is a lot,

but shit that’s just how well we got on,

so we packed into a tiny apartment

and drank.

When I walked in

the baby of the crew

was white girl wasted,

everyone on sight half bemused

and half offended. Yuppie church wife

passive aggression. Bless your heart.

Well as usual

he found his way to my lap,

babbling along while I played with his hair,

and White Girl took bets on if he’d dare.

Rocky, A-Train, and Irish said nay.

I’m Apollo

for landing a rugby jock on his ass

with the back of my hand.

Finally,

baby teeth opened his eyes

and announced to the room

that I was black inside.

Snort. Okay. Alright.

That’s fair, it’s fine.

Then he specified,

his mother

raised a gay black son

alone in a KKK town.

See what I lacked in melanin,

I made up for in tannins,

grit, guts.

Sometimes

it’s no insult to be called

a bad mom.