wyrdwind

Gray

When I was small

I asked to remain awake

for the procedure. Instead

they held me down

to administer anesthesia.

I fought. Clawed.

My screams scored the halls.

Try tranqing a Tasmanian devil,

sedatives are like slapping a gorilla.

One drop of Down

triggers a surge of adrenaline,

and my needle swings fight.

I prefer to know what’s going on.

Feel everything. Which is also not great.

Normal people

just take heroin. Instead, one day,

I discovered a broken heart unattended,

left long untreated, exposed,

will just Do That

like some fuckin’

Tolkien elf.

Arrhythmia

I laugh about it now.

Worst of both worlds.

Sand in my limbs, iron

coffin at the bottom

of the ocean.

Drowning over and over.

I felt everything.

Every day.

Grasped for a shore

where nothing and no one

waited for me.

Reality.

Minimum wage with a smile on my face

or else customers complained.

Coach wondered that I could take

such pressure on my neck, my diaphragm,

cage fighters twice my size sooner tapped,

holding out when my lungs

could barely expand.

Made an appointment with a psychologist

once,

before insurance cut off.

The only one for a hundred miles

whose completely unrelated specialty

was addiction.

He said as a matter of conscience

he couldn’t prescribe medication

because what I needed

was help.

Blood Eagle

My one wish then

was the same as it’s ever been,

that somewhere on the open road

there’s another, just one Other

whose insides look like this.

That order’s tall as it gets.

I’m aware.

But what’s a bad bird

to do without her dance partner?

The torment of every zookeeper

with a species endangered.

There is no next best.

No nest eggs.

Not even some cousins or sisters.

Wears on past a point

you doubt you’re a bird at all.

Something older. Reptilian.

Some nameless grief’s regression.

From the crushing depths you learn

the way of Sedna, of Tiamat,

fingers raw for the work

of endorphins.

There’s a place on the cusp of sleep,

wade-waters, and I wait there warm

and golden.

Where Tiamat met her mate

who was stolen.

If it’s not my hands

it’s not real.

That touch is mine alone.

The disturbance is coming

from inside the house.

Salt

They hate this shit in a girl.

Oh how people revile

my ability to say No,

put my rage where it belongs,

keep a target in my sights.

Draw a hard line.

Consecrate.

I’m “difficult.”

I “hold a grudge.”

Left my own uncle at a church

because he spittle shouted

and slammed a door at me one time.

Came begging after tasting Life.

Wouldn’t let him back inside,

homeless with one leg and nearly blind,

I knew he was about to die.

He didn’t.

But I wouldn’t bat an eye.

No difficulty, I will do a tough thing,

a dark deed.

I define family.

Here’s a new maternity leave:

This is my territory,

with or without babies, what could be,

those who may rely on me

for tranquility.

The privilege of my space.

It’s true I don’t feel guilt

and seldom apologize.

But if you’re mine,

you’ll never wonder why

I didn’t fight.

The Wild Hunt

You know how it is.

My voice is either swan down

falsetto sung at littles in the dark,

or commanding legions of undead.

Rabbit’s fur or thunder whip.

Pillow bliss or wet the bed.

There is no in between.

You’d never guess

my favorite holidays

are Yule and Samhain.

Do that kinda caroling

makes kids whisper El Cucuy.

I start my holiday

shuffling around my shower spider,

I leave him alone, he’s doing his job,

black coffee and steel cut oats,

both with butter—

I only fuck with Kerrygold—

call that an Irish Exorcism,

if it was in there now it’s not,

mama needs Jiu Jitsu fuel.

All of this to limber up,

heartwood sapwood strength enough,

long shots like a yew longbow,

taxine toxic in your cup,

Thoughts and Prayers double pump.

Some of the boys, well they play rough,

it’s hit the mats or else do drugs,

come find out it’s perma-Lent

anonymous. Whole laundry list

of former sins,

and I’m the “Beast”

who tests their stamina,

straighten up and fly right, yeah,

right before the Octagon.

Gods know I muzzle demons,

awfully out of breath son.

No secrets just announcements:

I shaved my back! I washed my hands!

I wore a cup! I ate Taco Bell!

I pulled my first double!

I got a girlfriend!

I was molested

so I’m always Clown On until I’m Not.

Boys.

Yggdrasil Aril

It’s said

that one man and one woman

will survive Ragnarok, sheltered

by the deathly sacred yew.

From them springs the next epoch.

Now there’s a thought. A proving ground.

Standing at the edge of everything,

ravaged land and endless night,

put your hand out.

Who is by your side?

Why?

I once dreamt of a fallen world,

the story of every soul written in the hollow trunk

where disease had struck.

Their men spoiled. Turned.

Had their tree bore fruit, they would live still.

The People. The dust planet.

The mission as I understood it

was to protect these trees whatever the cost.

Old growth. A Celtic knot

is a closed loop. Ecological. No domestic

differential, outer and inner spheres.

The natural union of Death and Love,

each the eternal muse of the other one.

Who dies dares to love.

Who loves is forever young.

Meet your lady

with a story to tell. Head full

of fleece for her spindle.

The fabric of our song.

An archer

aims with her heart.

Her focus and subconscious.

When is a yew safe to touch?

Where you’ve made the right bed,

however many bodies built it.

When she’s in the flesh.