Cold Hands Warm Heart
Never understood a tummy sleeper,
can’t do it myself, I’m a mummy sarcophagus,
but I can surely appreciate.
He gets home late,
I’m just wakin’ he’s still awake,
him fallin’ asleep to my white noise,
he likes it when I tell a story,
better the story sooner the snorin’.
And it’s still dark, I like the quiet,
the rush and crash, roof and willow,
hull and sails at sea, those desert winds.
And I just listen, and I do that thing
feels like the whisper of pine trees,
my fingertips lightly
anywhere accessible to me.
Scalp, shoulders, belly, hips and behind.
He’ll shift his legs subconsciously,
way the sun pulls at the buried seed,
and I know Junior’s too tired, just playin’,
just sayin’ hullo presentin’ for inspection.
I’m restless, he’s restless.
Least one of them knows his job.
And I’m a good girl, I go no further.
He already needs another pair,
that is clean underwear.
I’m miss nocturnal emissions.
I say I love you and even mean it,
but like I love ice cream, I love cat.
I’ve got the touch
but they don’t touch me back.
Spend ten years with a man,
and I’m faithful, don’t doubt,
a woman of honor and many words
or none,
but spent ten years with a man,
and from the moment I left him,
I don’t miss him. Not even a little.
I’m just a hot-blooded woman
likes to see things grow.
Could be any body in that bed,
but I want the right one.
Oh I shoulda taken the hint.
Hints plural. Se-ve-ral.
When I dreamt
we were in the frozen aisle,
some grocery store never seen before,
his heart was level with my ear,
my head rested there,
and he was wearin’ a thick, cream
cable knit sweater,
very nice if I may say so—
I love a sweater as you’d surmise
by my aspiration collection of woolens,
I just like to scrunch ’em and giggle,
I’m normal it’s fine—
I could wrap my arms around him,
everythin’ fit just as it should,
bones in complete alignment,
exactly the right shape,
arranged for the grave.
And my hands were busy enough
with his entire posterior—
I’m an ass woman,
even if it’s a modest harvest
such as this was. Clearly someone
needed to keep a firm grip
on this chilly tookus,
and that was my job.
Certainly no glass slipper.
More a cheeky callin’ card ’cause
when I woke I said
that was not my boyfriend.
Well I guess that was my man.
.
Spirit of Adventure
And it was always clear,
entire relationship had a third wheel,
and I didn’t even mind his brother there.
They never discussed his suicide attempt.
Ex caught him with a gun to his head
when he act funny in group chat,
goin’ to the bad place
because the love of his life left.
Same sickness his father had.
Machismo’s a helluva thing.
Among the poorest counties
in the entire nation.
300+ days of inescapable sunshine
leaves you a special kinda dark.
Our suicide rate has always been high.
So everywhere we went there he was,
actin’ mental health watch
for my Ex’s emotional support thug,
and you know Mexicans,
they will kick each other in the dick,
so we’d be discussin’ the border,
the power vacuum turf war,
count dead cousins and neighbors,
and how best to handle MS-13
a la El Salvador,
’cause I figured someone should
bond over Thug Subjects with Thug Brother
so he felt included in the Familia
otherwise he’d get the Big Sad,
and then this fool hit his pen
and told my Ex that I was like a dragon
and he was just a lil garden snake
like Jesus goddamn. I like snakes.
Snakes are good.
And I’d curate every road trip playlist:
We Don’t Need to Talk About Our Feelins,
But I Get It.
Suddenly he’d talk ’bout Peru again. His Ex.
The food, the culture, the land, the language,
how he went just for the slightest chance
he’d see her face.
Said a real man do whatever it takes,
his pappy walked miles every day
just to talk to his abuelita through a border fence.
I wouldn’t say my boys romantic.
Those his boots where his high ass
collapsed next to my tent.
6,600 ft above sea level is a helluva thing.
I did warn him. Just put a blanket,
he’ll be fine.
There’s room at my fire.
Sent proof of life to his mother
who act more like his catty and insecure
older sister,
sooner throw a punch
than acknowledge a feelin’.
I don’t speak Spanish
and they didn’t speak to each other but
sometimes there don’t need to be words,
just a long line of emoji hearts I keep secret.
More hearts on the books.
Here’s your baby, he’s still in there.
If I have your mom’s number,
there’s more baby pictures,
I am indiscriminate.
And trust, I’m always the first
person moms give their numbers to.
My mother always said
I chose the wrong brother,
though I had zero romantic interest
in Surly Baby Daddy Disaster,
I simply have an affinity for spicy strays:
Daughter’s name tattooed in gangster cursive,
same as his own in feminine form,
right next to Aztec gods
known in prison as “Big Homies”
and Santa Muerte.
He only got to hold her once.
His own fault he’s well aware. Also his mother’s.
That bridge underwater.
Anyways, suppose I got a two for one.
Bet a million dollars he’s still a bachelor.
Perhaps more stable now, I do good work.
That’s for the best he’s well aware.
No shade. Just the facts impersonal.
I put the light on workin’ folk,
kind you don’t much read about.
Not exactly Jane Austen but
even us stone belly scuttle bugs want love,
and so few are brave enough
risk a hurt has you courtin’ death,
willin’ to cross a continent
and never come back. Or an ocean.
And that’s true of any class.
And that’s the rub I’m afraid,
I’ve always been bored. Other. Mismatched.
In order to tolerate this place
I’m gotta be half somewhere else.
Always ask yourself: do you want that boy
or do you want a fine stout horse—
rather a small draft, say grey Fjord—
your best irons and a loomin’ mountain range?
Snow capped, misty, unmolested,
old growth resinous, missin’ on purpose?
I’m not sayin’ he gotta be Aragorn son of Arathorn,
but I’d thoroughly enjoy, like, a grungy bard.
It’s okay if he’s a lil helpless.
So long as he’s got spirit.
Just some guy I found looked lost.
Home’s wherever I find good cook rocks
and water to wash.
I’ll build a cottage for each of our spots
and we’ll see who all shows up
if we keep still, voices soft on the porch—
that’s right I got porch in my repertoire—
And I’m master of cowgirl camp grub,
be shocked what comes out that Dutch oven,
and I’ll take this every time
over any resort or Michelin star.
Forever. Forever.
We’ll be just a lil crusty and stinky together,
my soap’s cedar, juniper, and pine tar.
Ex always complained of the scent.
Fire and earth and must, I always said
I think you mispronounced Good.
Can’t have a man puts on airs—
after all, we live in the woods—
slip in and around towns for his gigs,
or whatever you call what a bard does,
and me I’m kinda a Jin-of-all-trades,
either I already know or I wing it in spades,
guess that’s what they call makin’ a livin’.
Then afterwards we’ll disappear,
or stay and play house until people chafe,
but there’s always a fire
and an escape
and a mug full of somethin’
and I’ll doze happily
with my nose in his hair.
I like to root around a bit.
Scrunch. Giggle.
What a girl wants.
.
Death Wish
Well we’re all gonna get there eventually,
no sense rushin’ the stop light,
and I’ve never been the type
walks away from a fight.
You miss 100% of the swings you don’t take.
However bad, and I know Bad best believe,
you’re always one Nat 20 away
from a whole new life.
Two, if you’re a dual wield aggro tank
with an especially passionate priest.
Never accept
the valuation of your worth,
the assigned scope of potential,
the priorities and decisions,
the situational estimation of people
who live like life never ends.
Who ask things of others
like that’s time they get back.
If you won’t care about it
waitin’ on your last breath,
it doesn’t matter. Period.
Once you see it,
the unforgivable waste,
the sedation,
you too will be possessed
of the Big Mad.
Mad is good.
And whatever you’ve got,
whatever’s wrong,
there could be a breakthrough at any time,
hell, you could discover it, or help somehow.
And maybe they can’t see it on a scan,
can’t point and go ope there it is,
all that means is anything can happen
any time.
The human mind is wild,
capable of more than you realize,
and maybe they’ll find down the line
it was somethin’ stupid all along,
real Scooby-Doo Mask Off,
between then and now, you’re not alone.
Neurons that fire together
wire together.
We’ll get up every morning and find out
together.
No one ever accused me of bein’ an optimist.
I put the cut in cut a loss.
But someone did say once
that I was like a samurai,
it’s not a vocation, it’s not a choice.
The fight is who I am,
the blade is my religion,
or is it a scythe?
Point is,
the world isn’t made better by your absence—
that’s Catholic crybaby martyr shit—
it’s made better by your actions.
.
Second Skin
I stayed up until 3am
hand stitchin’ the finishin’ touches
on his friend’s wife’s baby quilt.
He asked why
and I said baby’s comin’.
But he’s not due for another week or so.
Baby’s comin’ now.
As I tied off my little Indian elephant
I paused
and that whisper,
like you enter a dark room
but smell the candle’s smoke curl,
the sister wants this quilt.
Just not quite yet. When she’s older.
Right on both counts.
We met at the shower
and she ran up to point
and babble excitedly at my skirt.
Twirled to display hers.
And she was so little I thought surely
she wouldn’t remember
when I said I made it myself.
But when we met at my new job,
well she was a much bigger girl.
Almost as tall as her grandma.
Still the same excitement.
She remembered to me
how I filled the tree by my tent
with so many pretty lanterns,
no two the same,
and the A-frame itself had solar lights.
She remembered my rugs and clothes and gadgets.
How she found a baby horned lizard in the woods,
and I taught her to put it back
while explainin’ what a reptile was.
How I encouraged her efforts
to capture a piece of the New Years bonfire
and bring it to the other littles
so she might learn to tend one herself.
Everythin’.
She asked if I was gonna move away
and become a clothes designer.
She asked if I was still friends
with her mama.
I said well of course, but you know
I was always there with my boyfriend
and we aren’t together anymore.
She had no idea who I was talkin’ about.
He had forgotten the quilt long ago.
.
Portraiture
Everyone was drinkin’ and craftin’
and the baby wouldn’t stop fussin’—
the baby that nearly never was,
so horrendous our workin’ conditions—
and her mama thought she was bein’ bad,
but I said nah,
she just wants to be part of the conversation.
So I sat her in my lap,
y’know so she could see everybody,
bounce, clap her hands and squeal
when her mama talked mad shit
about the Bitch Who Must Not Be Named.
Teethed on the cold nubbly glass bottom
of my beer bottle
while I was still drinkin’ it.
Her other favorite thing
was shovin’ her hands and feet
right into my mouth like :D,
and that’s my own fault
for pretendin’ to gobble them so often.
First taste she ever got
of her heritage
was when I came over
and cooked carne asada
the way it’s meant to be done.
She even had salsa
like a champ. I make it hot.
Her mama never learned
havin’ flown the nest too soon.
Said it tasted like home,
how she missed flyin’ in,
seein’ the village lights through the jungle,
the rain glow,
how her family’s house was the first
to have glass windows.
How her mama was a seamstress
barely makin’ ends meet
in California with a bastard landlord.
They fled because of cartels.
There, they had little, but were happy.
You could live a good life.
Here, they were poor.
.
Poetic License
If you’re wonderin’ why I got a thing
for weirdo trouble brunettes
with very good hair, look no further
than Micheal (1996). Could be longer,
the hair. More chestnut. Anyhow,
this idiot sugar hound. I love him.
Though I’m not really
a dimples square jaw woman.
You know me, it’s waif of nothin’.
Always thought
angels should have pigeon wings,
and I love a road trip,
narrow scenic lanes, low lights,
that 90s set design,
but not flatland grass.
I don’t like the midwest.
Mountains. The frosted breath
of tectonic corridors, nowhere
a city could coagulate.
Like that danger snake we took
comin’ home from Bryce.
Except this time I’ll just keep goin’
the trees just get taller, thicker, night falls.
Tell me secrets when you’re jostled awake
on some lonely highway 2am
or tell me about your dreams.
Nightmares.
We’ll stop when it’s freezin’ out
and I’ll show you
a woman can piss while standin’ too,
’cause you looked a lil blue.
Small miracles.
Gotta control the flow.
Approach the task with gusto.
Clean our hands with snow. Ow, fuck.
See, long drives,
those are the second most likely place
God takes a conference call. Number one?
That’s the bathroom.
It’s true it’s true hear me out.
Me and my girl just don’t stop talkin’,
she leaves the door wide open,
holds it even,
so we aren’t interrupted.
Just says any and every thought
pops into her head as it happens.
Gotten some Looks
it must be said.
So one day we’re talkin’
and all a sudden comes tricklin’ a chorus
of MOM! Mom? MooOM?
From everywhere in her goddamn house
and her entire flock of daughters
come out the woodwork,
some recently mothers or actively pregnant,
everyone bustlin’ around chatterin’ at once.
We hear them all.
Their voices and cadence distinct,
and to someone else it’s a ruckus,
unintelligible noise,
but we understand the specifics.
Requestin’ crumbs of knowledge
about mundane tasks.
Minor dispute settlin’ over text.
These are not big questions.
None of it’s important, or all of it is.
And my girl just looks me in the eye
like breakin’ the fourth wall,
still tryna piss,
and once the girls have their fill
and disperse,
she goes
“This is what you have to look forward to.”
.
Standing Stones
He got somewhat upset once,
pride stung, some version of a man
he thought he was,
while my mother was intubated
and I immediately maneuvered
to secure my livin’ situation, ensure
I could maintain it
on my meager paychecks. No small feat
as the house required extensive repairs,
most of them requirin’ at least four hands.
He said I always act
like he isn’t there. Looked struck
when I said you’re not.
Any time anythin’ ever went wrong
I was alone. Had to fix it myself.
He was either doin’ overtime or sleepin’
and somehow always broke.
Because that’s simply the truth,
and a woman cannot
bank on a man’s support. Ever.
Perhaps he expected me to comfort,
to show emotion, and when I didn’t,
simply showed him the receipts,
he just stopped. Had no idea
who he was dealin’ with.
Now I’ve got what’s called
very, very low Expressed Emotion.
I don’t like people lookin’ at me,
especially when I’m happy,
and when a woman doesn’t
make effusive accommodain’ displays,
smile for no reason,
and refuses to stuff and upholster,
endlessly soften and defer
the slightest phrase,
she is seen as aggressive.
Angry or unfeelin’ entirely.
God forbid she’s got
a penetratin’ and analytical gaze.
I could tell you exactly why this is,
but I can also tell you about
that scene in the movie Brave
where the daughter
who has nothin’ in common
with her mother is standin’ her ground
tryna keep her life, her heart, her own,
refusin’ arranged marriage,
and her mother had thrown the symbol
of her independence into the fire
and in return she put a sword
through the family tapestry,
well that scene a while after,
where the mother is yellin’ at her
and gestures with her hands
and Merida recoils, prepares for impact,
and Elinor stops, horrified at her own actions,
because in this scene
she has the body of a bear.
She’s five times the size, more,
of this little girl,
who found wilderness
more welcomin’ than her own home.
And later, after makin’ the effort
to know her daughter’s heart,
live in her world,
Elinor uses her bear body
to kill the demon bear Mor’du
in defense of her daughter’s life.
Shoves him into the stones
over and over
until one cracks and crushes him.
Dawn breaks and it seems
Elinor is lost,
gone from the bear’s eyes, vacant.
Merida clings to her, sobbin’ and says
you were always there for me,
I’m sorry,
and the lullaby plays,
Noble Maiden Fair through the sunlight
and the curse is broken.
The family is mended.
Well, Queen Elinor is fundamentally
a good mother.
Mine wouldn’t have bothered.
Especially after my father left.
.
Highland Games
It’s not all stiff drinks up in this gin joint,
just puttin’ a lil hair on your chest,
c’mere I’ve somethin’ fatten you up a bit.
I ever tell you
why two of my top picks
for baby names are Cimorene and Morwen?
There’s a series of children’s books,
I wouldn’t say they’re written…well.
But point is the princess in question
doesn’t fit in. Wants to learn
all manner of uncivil lowborn
rough hand thing
by courtly standards anyway.
She runs away.
In a calculated risk, she ventures forth
into the Mountains of Morning,
the ancestral home of the dragons.
Finds a few loungin’ about in conference,
walks right up to them
and volunteers.
See dragons usually steal princesses,
it’s sportin’ behavior. Way to boast
their dragonly prowess. Like a cattle raid.
Then knights or princes have chance
to do Great Deeds, prove their mettle,
and just maybe advance their lot
or win at love. Win win win. An ecosystem.
Princess Cimorene volunteers.
Not only does she volunteer,
she has absolutely no intention
of acceptin’ a suitor. This
is a one way trip.
Dragons scratch their scales,
somewhat stumped at this development.
Finally, a dragon named Kazul says
she’ll take her. Hasn’t had a princess
for some time.
It would be some time
before Cimorene understood why
the other dragons were so surprised.
They descend into the cave complex
in which all dragons reside.
Kazul shows her to the princess suite
and apologizes for the rough accommodations,
all her stuff just layin’ about,
and she has a lot
because dragon.
Well Cimorene
just about died
and gone to Weird Girl Heaven.
Ancient books, magical scrolls,
swords and equipment of all sorts.
Anythin’ at all
she could possibly want to learn or become.
Kazul doesn’t ask for much.
Cimorene cleans and organizes
her entire house
while Kazul is off on very important
dragon errands. Very mysterious.
Kazul comes home like what the fuck
and Cimorene goes here’s dinner.
Kazul forgot she even had a stove.
She’s like you didn’t have to
and she’s like but I love your Stuff Cave
it’s nice.
Cave is good.
They get on, become quite close,
Cimorene learns dragon culture,
helps neighborin’ princesses adjust,
directs suitors to their best match,
meets Kazul’s best friend,
a witch livin’ in a big porch cat cottage
in a secret grove
in a mountain-armored valley.
That’s Morwen.
Together they stop some shithead wizards
from stealin’ the dragon election,
’cause they want unfettered access
to the vast stores of magic in the range.
They don’t produce magic themselves,
only steal and manipulate it. Men.
The dragons must all carry a boulder
named Colin’s Stone,
fly with it, that is,
whose magic screams through their bones,
as if to shake them apart,
like an exposed nerve at the end
of everythin’, or the start.
Whoever bears it longest wins.
When the dust settles, and the threats
are eliminated,
Cimorene looks up
and Kazul is King.
The mightiest dragon.
Cimorene becomes Chief Royal Cook and Librarian
as King Kazul has little need
of a pet princess for status.
Turns out she is even a grandmama.
Some time later,
when King Mendanbar
of the Enchanted Forest
turns up at their door, perplexed,
lookin’ for King Kazul to discuss some breech
in his forest’s security, some shady dragon scales,
at first Cimorene makes to send him packin’,
single ladies only in this bachelor nest,
but when he clarifies his purpose,
she reveals her dear friend has gone missin’
and she was just on her way out to find her.
Adventure and skulduggery ensue.
He is a magic king chosen by a magic sword
charged to defend the forest and all of its creatures,
human or otherwise.
Together they find, once again,
some shithead wizards to blame,
and it’s like
well well well if it isn’t Little Beard
and his Very Small Hat. Fancy
smellin’ you here. Get square.
They kick the wizards’ asses,
with Morwen’s help of course.
After round two
with the Society of Wankers,
our favorite grandmama all healed up,
he kicks some rocks around
scuffs some dirt,
and says you’re prolly gonna go
home with King Kazul now, huh?
And Cimorene’ like,
well what else would I be doin’???
And he goes idk stayin’ in my castle.
With me. Forever. As Queen. Maybe.
If you want.
And Cimorene just ????
Was that a proposal?
…Yeah. Uh. I love you.
And she’s like, this fool.
I better save him from him own self.
She says yes.
Figures someone gotta keep things straight
in the big magic forest full of magic creatures.
I’m paraphrasin’ of course.
Anyways, it’s terrible.
I’ll read it to you someday.
.
Fire and Night
The Mountains of Morning contain
the Caves of Fire and Night.
Blue-grey crystalline peaks with a heart
of pure obsidian. Home of the Colin’s Stone.
In its chambers and tunnels
sounds are amplified
to a dangerous degree. The slightest breath
becomes a primal scream.
Thousandfold. Like somethin’
left over from the Big Bang.
Sulfur springs, lava, a funeral march
of princes turned to stone,
a livin’ labyrinth,
pools of black liquid
where only a few drops above ground
cast darkness absolute twenty miles around.
A terrifyin’ weapon.
I’ve thought about those caves
over the years. I thought about them
when the grit of my situation
set my teeth on edge. See,
with my mother in the hospital
after I forced her to go, pendin’ bills
with no insurance, and our worst neighbor
callin’ code enforcement nonstop,
creepin’ ’round with a camera,
which ran the risk of our rotted,
infested, half floor-less house
bein’ declared unfit for human habitation,
which meant we’d be forcibly evicted
from a property our family owned,
which meant I would lose the ability
to afford utilities and grow crops,
that is for food,
well.
I was not okay.
It was one too many fires, not to mention
the burnin’ eye in the sky. Summer.
Plus the pandemic on.
As I lie in my dark bedroom
in my empty house
taken so much water damage
as to have essentially become
a dilapidated cardboard box,
not lookin’ at or answerin’ my phone,
thinkin’ on what I’d have to do
to get that neighbor off my back
permanently—
she doesn’t leave her house to this day,
will not show her face,
I’m sure her California ass
thought to her gentrifyin’ self,
it’s Just Money, why doesn’t she just
Pay It and have a Respectable Yard,
when really it’s Land, and land is life—
well that was the first time
I ever asked
is anyone out there?
Anyone at all?
Takin’ some hits here and
I never asked for my life to be easy,
but fuck.
I knew better. It was a moment
of weakness. I didn’t allow tears.
I knew the answer.
Or thought I did.
During my mother’s induced coma
she dreamt
a blue-grey crystalline cavern
with three doors before her
and a phantom hand at her throat
stranglin’ her, always on the brink
of chokin’ to death.
She couldn’t scream.
She couldn’t cry.
She kept throwin’ herself at the middle door,
wild with mortal terror,
over and over and over and over
but it was locked.
Finally, she chose a different door
and woke up.
The mother who came home to me
was not the same mother I sent off.
Her personality completely changed.
Heel-face turn.
Now utterly disabled,
frail as a newborn, and in some ways
reverted to a childlike or juvenile
mental and emotional state.
I would have to care for her
as I did my grandmother
before she passed.
She was little, and I was big.
Our main points of contact, interface,
became stories. Books, movies, TV.
To preserve her mind. Keep her tethered
to reality. Life. Or near enough anyway.
Repeat to me
everythin’ you read or watched today.
And all the traits
she once demonized,
spit and struck me for,
left me in the cold,
she admired in me now.
Our favorite characters were the same.
I learned to make pancakes
on the back of an iron skillet
like her Scottish grandma did,
puffy with lemon and powdered sugar.
She liked that.
And then, one mornin’, she told me
about her history. How her older brother—
a dunce brute sucked grandma’s teat
to the grave—
always touched her
in ways a brother shouldn’t,
and grandma did nothin’, coddled him,
because he was her boy,
so she ran away.
How she lost her virginity to rape
by a friendly acquaintance,
when she thought she was safe.
How her first husband refused to work,
and couldn’t get it up
unless she dressed like a little girl
and he made it hurt.
And I didn’t mention
how I found out my father
had recorded over my children’s movies
with violent porn.
The facts impersonal.
A constellation of pain.
Woulda done her no good to know.
Instead, I told her about
some old books I read
back when there was a bookstore,
when I was very small.
Campy sword and sorcery sort.
I wouldn’t say they’re written…well.
But in them, there is a magical sword,
forged by a woman smith whose soul
bound the manifold enchantments,
made it sentient. Her.
She can teach her partner,
balance their skill set, guide them
upon a warrior’s path. The greatest good.
The women of their order
had been terrorized, impregnated,
and raped to death.
Lifebringers corrupted.
Suffered as only women can.
And so
the chosen wielder of the blade Need
who finds her hand in the darkness,
is placed under a geas:
“Woman’s Need calls me;
As Woman’s Need made me;
Her Need I must answer;
As my maker bade me.”
She liked that.
.
My Own Medicine
What’s with those grabby hands,
you’re bein’ too top-down about it,
like tryna snatch a leaf out the water
when you should just let it come.
Maintain rhythm, go with the current,
the self is the surface tension,
the leaf is your thought.
You are small.
Most of what you are
lurks below.
Genius is bottoms up, center out,
organic growth,
control is an illusion, I told you,
and dreams aren’t random,
they serve a purpose, your mind
does its best work asleep,
all behind the scenes,
ego insignificant.
And you gotta play its games,
recognize the symbols and signs,
every dream has rules and objectives,
you just have to go with it,
trust the process.
Even if it’s floor is lava blue is loud and you gotta put the teacup on the couch ’cause there’s an owl outside.
Just do it.
Someday it will all make sense.
Brain won’t let you fiddle with shit
if you don’t show finesse.
The only difference
between nothing and everything
is perspective. Fear makes you rigid.
Rigid is dangerous.
Why am I tellin’ you this?
Because the very first thing
your mama teach you in life
is how to close your eyes. Faith
that we all wake up I the same place
no matter how lost in the night.
The oldest magic is the lullaby.
There’s a reason spells rhyme.
Couldn’t tell ya what reason of mine,
dreamt I was once again
fightin’ some guys. High stakes movie chase,
feral terminatrix acrobatics, the usual,
when suddenly I Hulked through
a dimension wall
into an unlit, abandoned waitin’ room,
shadows crossin’ slow motion,
sheer volume of silence, oceans,
sad lil attachment of an old hospital,
and through a bright open door, I heard
Tighinn air a’ mhuir tha ‘m fear a phòsas mi,
a song I’d stumbled upon earlier
and vibed with the flow,
though hadn’t understood the words,
like a stream hurryin’ along
all over bends and stones,
achin’ for some deeper destination
as water does. It wants to be One.
As I listened, a new hall emerged,
double doors of the ER,
out of focus, peripheral, a presence
only perceived
by the corner of my eye.
Well okay. Half expect
some King’s Quest shit like
what’s that bush? Bam you’re dead.
Loose tile. Bam you’re dead.
My childhood was Sierra Entertainment.
Said alright I’m game. Here we go.
Then in one of those rooms,
down that dark hall,
I brushed aside a heavy curtain
and the room was lit with fairy lights,
warm yellow and neon pink,
really quite nice, if a bit…
nest-like,
bigger on the inside
in a genie’s lamp kinda way,
silk cushions, blankets, rugs and all.
Effort was made.
And there she was,
some red headed woman
naked under a voluminous robe,
like killed her seven rich husbands style,
y’know real classic number.
She had a cup in her hand,
and a cup appeared in mine,
and she shrugged it off like
alright time to fuck.
And I was all, yo,
I’m not a lesbian. Not even curious.
And she goes neither am I,
this isn’t about sex. Get in there.
And I took it on the chin ’cause
fair’s fair I’m a bit pushy myself,
I respect what a woman wants,
and my goodness
she had this…cold weight.
Enormous, hard, deafenin’
all inside her I could sense
whatever she was, it was not human.
But her form suggest
I do what a human think feels good so
held my breath and got it done,
hoped I wouldn’t die in the process,
she wouldn’t haul off and punch me in the head,
had a look under the hood as it were.
Her insides were Black as truth. A glarin’ chasm.
Shit I do for the spirits. Knowledge
requires sacrifice, and I’m not a pussy.
No pun intended.
.
Navel
Dunno how much plainer
coulda made myself when I said
my favorite part of The 100
is that moment where nuclear fallout
turns the world to desert, but Clarke
finds the last green cradle on Earth
and finds an orphaned daughter there.
The remainin’ tribes of humanity
endurin’ deep beneath the surface
for a predetermined number of years
to ensure safe radiation levels,
the rest in exodus among the stars.
She knows about them
but they don’t know about her.
Imagine
the last woman in all the world
witness to a caesura between epochs,
watchin’ over a new people
before they’re born.
Raisin’ your child there.
He thought it was horrifyin’.
I thought it was beautiful.
Not the struggle. The peace,
the potential. After everythin’.
Tellin’ the stories of your kin
above and below
to a child may never meet them,
just so she knows
she’s not alone in the universe.
Never as alone as she seems.
Sketchin’ their likenesses from memory.
Sendin’ radio messages one way.
Clarke’s true love perished,
the Commander who united
the twelve warrin’ clans,
who wore black warpaint
like a raven’s wings over her eyes.
Groomed for leadership,
not just combat,
from a very young age,
ascended her position at twelve
after the gladitorial battle royale,
and when implanted
with the life experience, the memories
of every Commander before her,
hidden bits of encoded data
there to be unlocked,
in a process that made a Nightblood
more of what they are, better or worse,
to the nth degree.
Cannibal, madman, or tyrant.
Lexa became exceptional,
calm, focused.
She became a deep forest,
saw the future of her people
in the centuries,
supernaturally wise.
Killed by a jealous priest
who thought he knew bet.
Because Lexa was the Commander
but also a woman who wanted
a great love. Epic even.
Anyways,
he prolly doesn’t remember all that.
And he prolly doesn’t remember
when I explained that it wasn’t
because of our previous conversation,
nothin’ to point at if you scan the brain,
our history,
that there’s a forest in me,
that we’re simply not the same
species.
That even if there’s only one of me,
I have to try. That I’d rather be alone
forever than with the wrong guy.
He kept askin’
if it was because of That question,
and to this day, I’m quite certain,
I bet he’s told everyone,
he think I left because
I didn’t want children.
I do.
.
Epigenetics
There’s the Ursas, Southern Cross,
Alpha and Beta Centauri, Orion’s Belt,
Polaris, so on.
I suppose that’s cold comfort
to an unwillin’ passenger.
Rán gets a bad rap,
spoken of only in skaldic kennings,
worded carefully, averted gaze,
a giantess whose name means “theft”,
embodiment of the abyssal plane,
goddess of the drowned, storms,
treasure and wrecks,
an ultimate curtailment
on the trespass of man
lest he forget himself.
The Ego check.
You’re how big on this blue planet?
But I like to think her hungry net
claims the bravest, most restless,
the harrowed and dispossessed.
Where do you go without a compass?
When your home has been stolen?
Hollowed out by another’s greed?
Sailors used to keep some gold
to pay their way.
Just in case.
But I think
there’s rather an alchemy to her domain.
She wants for company, shares in grief,
for her no sufferin’ is too heavy. She is the sea.
No soul so vile
she can’t scour it raw, bloodless.
Unforgiving. Without mercy.
But not without mead.
Attended by her nine wild-haired daughters,
the waves. There’s room at her table
if no tender shore awaits, awash
unclaimed remains.
I’m sayin’ the real gold,
that’s the souls of those who had
nothin’.
Most precious.
Robbed of their dignity, humanity.
Whole ocean’s haunted. Hematoma solvent.
They’re her creatures now.
Y’know you always hear
about how atrocities committed
result in adverse DNA methylation patterns.
An invisible curse. A terrible wail
spans generations. There’s a moment
you’re an egg inside your mother
inside your grandmother.
Everythin’ you’re feelin’
came from somewhere. You were brought
by a woman. Is she the ship
or the sea or the stars?
She didn’t steal what belongs to her.
Your destiny is written in a woman’s heart,
and you can change your constellations.
How you operate Navigate.
What you didn’t realize is
immense trauma can be negated
by immense love,
conceptualized in science as
safety, nurture, and enrichment.
Cultivation of dopamine and oxytocin.
The ghosts will fall silent.
Somewhere
a mermaid learns to walk again,
partakes the pleasure of a human skin,
a gift the oldest mother sent,
dark medicine.
We create an environment conducive,
become our preferred habitat,
the bones in the earth,
slumberin’ giants.
However broken and laid bare,
we plant our feet and cast our nets,
take the good with the bad,
sweat steadfast at the forge.
What was lost may yet return.
We give our gold to each other
and we will not pass our demons
onto our children.
wyrdwind 