There she is.
I wondered how she’d look tonight
when earlier today
I swept free the cobwebs from the legs of a patio chair.
Irritable and stately,
half a cloud sliding from one nude shoulder.
Radiant and hungry,
searching for the approval she knows she deserves.
Wide eyed and watchful
99.7 percent full
encountering the events of the world
just as it is today:
November on the coat of a cat.
Crickets at precisely 7:58 PM.
and my mother,
sliding in a pan of cupcakes for my birthday.
How much can you swallow before it swallows you back
When the empty is heavier than the sky that he held over his head for losing
to Gods who have no business being Gods
I thought about that today
going back up the stairs to my office after a particularly shitty phone call
Miserable, heavy, hopeless
Holding up the sky on my shoulders, still trying to remember the name of that Titan
and suddenly grinning like a Sufi
Remembering none of that
when a fat squirrel, one I’ve seen many times, paused just long enough outside the glass
Reminding me of my Grandpa who died when I was twelve
and solitary balloons still make me believe he is reaching out
that stupid squirrel made me drop the sky
and fall to my knees and laugh
I am an ocean
full of dark things that never see light
My body covers the earth
and when the sun bears his touch
I remember how vast I really am
I could spend hours rolling my head side to side
trying to see all of myself
And that’s when you see me and remember yourself too
I am a Queen
Reaching for my people
Retreating softly with the night
An abundant solitude
spread upon the dining table of the moon
I love the way she cries
Only does it when she needs to
She beats the sunrise to her totem overlooking the meadow
I try and catch her through binoculars, but what could be better than my naked eye
Then it occurs to me in this moment why I love her so much
She is what my soul wants to be right now
Thought clouds, one by one, passing by
But she is pure concentration
The weight of nothing but hunger on her shoulders
Not food, but sustenance
I might live my whole life trying to grasp the distinction
God shows himself in mysterious ways
Sometimes he’s Louis Armstrong on the radio on your way home from work
Sometimes he’s an owl-shaped tealight candle holder, small and gray
That way when you turn off all the bedroom lights
his face flickers in haunting shadow
Actually he’s a million different solitary birds
presenting to each of us one by one
And he sings too
Did you know that?
I actually read that somewhere…
That if indeed in the beginning was the Word
It was probably a sung word
Mary asked good questions. The kind only a woman thinks.
Do I see you with my soul or with my spirit?
He smiled. The deep kind that starts in the eye.
Neither. It’s your mind, Miriam, the space between the two.
She chewed on that awhile, holding the weight of her hair at the top of her head.
I ate you with my mind, she said, and now you’re inside of me.
Yes, a woman’s magic.
To suckle the world and then devour it like Kali.
To suffer the stone of truth like Cassandra.
To choose blood over honey like Eve.
To cut strange fruit like Billie Holiday at Cafe Society in Greenwich Village.
To cry out your gratuitous pleasure.
To harvest your ancient, rounded, beauty.
To brave your raw death.
To become Corinthian Love.
He who has the mind to remember,
Let him Remember.