Waxing Gibbous

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,

perhaps

half a cloud sliding from one nude shoulder.

Radiant and hungry,

no doubt

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.

Atlas

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 Zeus

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

Atlas

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

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

A Mother

Reaching for my people

Retreating softly with the night

An abundant solitude

spread upon the dining table of the moon

My Hawk

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

Shapeshifter god

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’s Gospel

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.