a Journal of Poetry and the Arts
Web Page Builder
The Sacred in the Quotidian
Dream of the bashed calf
the heart touched by tweezers, dream of the willow tree
moaning and swaying my long hair in the storm
back and forth, back and forth in grief
laughing and cursing from tormenting helpless grief
world storming with me comforting correspondence
lightening splitting open the sky to show me
the crack she entered through, O my love, my love
I see the film of you enter the clouds
you speak thunder and your eyes sparkle
and rain comes, pelting my coat slowly, and I look at my sleeve
in amazement, feel my head getting wet
when I look back you're gone
only shoulders of storm clouds, I can't even look the rain
hits my face so hard, I give up the wish.
The rain releases the pressures of holding it in, the rain
sputters under tires
full of grease as it mixes
but it is dropping generously and clear, releasing all the pressure
which had been building up for years
since the day we learned you had cancer, before that
during those times we didn't use our love to hide our fate.
I know you could not give me back myself, that part of me
which is in you. Love is eternal. We make deep connections
and one by one
the ends of these strings are planted in the ground.
They are not strings. They are reins.
I'm holding them to hold onto you.
I'm going to let go and trust them, for I am in the world
but I love the dead
I need the dead. Those living around me
are so often in the realm I do not understand, driving,
driving as though they're going to keep driving forever.