Anti-Gravity

Art by Dan-Ah Kim

Once again . . .

The promise of sanctuary.

The insolence of perfectionism.

or, should I say

the sanctuary of perfectionism?

Whatever I name it,

it beckons.

This time, I decline the offer.

I no longer constrict myself.

no more armor.

Instead, I crack myself and 

open wide the mouth

of the wound.

what pulls me, now?

I am inclined towards

the quiet wonders

that sit before me

in silence and listen.

what do you want me to say?

In the space between us,

the softness glistens

like stardust.

I can cry, if I want. I can let

the image reflected in my eyes dissolve . . .

like millions of undulating raindrops.

But, I cannot lose that image.

Or, can I?

what pulls me?

Nothing is permanent.

Not this.

Not anything.

I sit it out. Let it pass.

let it go.

The heavens are here.

Stars. Stars. Everywhere.

Untethered Inquiry

Art by Gustav Klimt

After Hurricane Harvey

*****

I’ve always kept certain questions 

tucked away like forbidden 

family secrets.

Yet, something has shifted,

these last few days.

what is this helplessness?

what is this vigilance?

what is this hope?

What is the source of these inquiries?

What is triggering them out of

placid hibernation?

Can this be?

Can it be I attribute inspiration

to the intensity with which the sky falls?

But, that is far too complicated for today.

Today. Today . . . I am happy

with the simple things.

I am happy with the wind in the trees

and the crunch of dry(ing) grass 

beneath my feet.

I am happy with the song of September

enveloping my waist like so many

curious yet subtle fingers.

I am happy with the trill of the bird,

imperfect and uncertain as it may be.

I have learned 

that the heavens 

hold enough water

to saturate the earth and 

make it plead with overwhelm.

And, I have cried, because

some forms of abundance

are cushioned with tears.

But, though I have been pounded by an

unleashed dam, today, my spirit

fills to the brim with a craving

that gushes from this world

into the far beyond.

The fallen blossoms from a crepe myrtle

scatter in the thickening morning.

Last night’s moon hangs 

from the clouds—an

echo, a remnant, a

revenant.

Like a thirsting willow, I unfurl my

splendor cautiously. Bowing down, 

I deliver, and I receive.

Cautious Renaissance

Beata Beatrix by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

I am a fallen angel, struck by

the thunderbolt of wonder and desire,

exiled to a destiny of solitary emancipation.

But, hear me, now:

I am also a woman of truth.

And so, I must, you know . . .

I must transport myself into

a certain willingness that embraces 

this brave new autonomy.

I must enact this deepest form of 

worship that knows not how to ask, 

but only to receive.

I must open, submit . . . believe.

I have wandered in a Dantean limbo

for eternity. And, I have fallen . . . 

risen . . . and fallen again.

I seek the promise of relief.

The sky will soon be evening-gowned 

in black silk and brilliant diamonds.

The oil-smooth river will ripple like mercury

beneath the milky glow of the moon.

The owl will weep once more.

And, I? I will fall 

like a lush tree in a postmodern forest.

who will witness this . . . ?

No one will hear my cries.

And so, I must . . .

I must this rebirth allow.

I must this Self redeem.