marlawentmad

Sweet lizard had her belly to the ground
to feel the first rumbling of things
which have not yet come, but are just
out of sight, threatening.

Her rattle and hiss are early warnings
to a larger community of distracted busy-
bodies who do not heed her insistence, so
she sinks her fangs in and waits for the
attention to turn.

The initial shock aches and stings, but the mind
is a tricky ally to get a hold of,
the body is tended to at first.
The strange tingling down an arm,
a numbness that spreads down one side,
a tightening of the chest, and an unexpected
discoordination that makes the whole
beast lumber to and fro, bewildered and
panting.

The mind raced from one solution to the next,
instead of finding the eye of the storm deep
in the hollows of its body’s wide forest where the
snake waits to tell her story about what it is that
she is afraid of, and
the ways in which she
knows how to
protect.

The plant twined deep into the tender marrow
through the third eye, bursting lusciously
from crown to heaven.

It whispered, we are one, universe child.

She felt alone back then, standing on the cliff
arms outstretched, the air a willing companion for
the heart first dive into the great unknown, hopeful.

The falling unwound time, and it spooled out behind her
telling the story of all the signs missed, the messages garbled,
the prophecies clear and sharp as the edge of broken glass,
unknown known, but
unavoidable.

Now, the roots lowered her gentle and tender into the womb of black
earth, embracing, caressing, gentle care to plant her sweetly, with a
promise that she can surrender to the knowledge there was nothing
she could have predicted to undo what’s been done, but
rest is revolutionary.

It’s an iron door.
I slip my tingling
hand through the
narrow bars.

The dust sparkles
in the slanting rays
of sun, swirling lazily
around my outstretched
fingers. I wave them slowly.

Her profile is stark against the
window. There is cigarette smoke
drifting in on the breeze.
It makes my chest clench and
my throat closes around a feeling
like desperation, like rage, like powerlessness.

We keep our eyes trained just past the other’s
shoulder, our lips tight with the tension of slyness.
She raps her fingers on the table and taps her foot.

One of us will grab hold of the cold latch and slide the
heavy barrier between us open, one of us will roll up our
sleeves and get to work on the uncovering of things, but until
then

We meet each other’s gaze occasionally, anticipation high in our
shoulders, which we roll and groan at the achy tension building up and
up, our ears ringing with the effort of not making the first move because
vulnerability can ache.

She thought she’d lay in the sea until
the fatigue took her, until her limbs became
heavy as lead, when the fear
of sinking into the cool black night
was less than the relief
of being embraced by the deep
peace she felt
in a dream she kept
tucked under
her ribs for
safekeeping.

When it is all too much, there is always the sea,
and finally finally
she came up from
the valley, across the
mountains and through the
dense wood to the long soft
expanse of a powdery shoulder of
the land she used to call home, but forsook
to test the limits
of her own
resolved to
rest.

But now
she feels the waves
pushing at her more insistently, the roar
louder, the prickle across her skin from
seafoam and the song of birds crescendo.

She opened her eyes and
there it was, a different shore
black sand glittering against
starkly white cliffs, black birds insistent and whirling
through the sky in an impossible
murmuration.

She walked from the sea, the bright eyes
of her loved ones guiding her through the
gloom of twilight, the stars leaned in closer
and crowded to see the reunion.

Warm hands dried her limbs with
soft fabrics and comforting sounds.
Someone lit a fire, and soon the sweet
scent of boiling herbs drifted around her,
dizzying, welcoming, and grounding, in
community, with love, for connection.

My mouth became a swinging door, like
those saloons in old movies,
in which my reckless inner thoughts stumble
in and out,
back and forth
easily.

A deluge of swear words fill my headspace as
I remember what I forgot, forgot what
I thought I remembered, lose
my step in time, and slam
my knee off the desk
again.

I used to keep my mouth shut like a
steel trap, my eyes watering
with the pressure of
the vile things I left
unsaid, my cheeks burning
with the shame I carried when
I was sure my grandmother’s god
could hear my every thought, and thus knew
what sort of horrible wretch I was
for feeling such uncharitable thoughts.

It’s strange how those old fears cling
even after you bury the bones
of those old beliefs,
along with the bodies
of the people who instilled
them into your pliable child self, who still
stamps her foot,
yelling curses
in triumph, waving
her little fists in the
strong breeze of
revolutionary disobedience.

Nice girls don’t curse, so
I treat everyone kindly, but
I also say fuck a lot
to keep everyone honest.

Brain fog is knowing you
should be
doing something...but

my thoughts are
diaphanous silk in a strong breeze, which
blew down the shelves I meticulously organized with
every relic I did not have time to process
or label
or feel through, so
now there are shards everywhere.

The clean up is slow going because my fingers
fumble as often as my feelings and my chest is
tight with the struggle of not falling into the deep
end, which looks like it is now filled up with glass instead
of cool inviting waters.

I'm not sure if this piece belongs with that piece,
but there is lacquer and gold dust in my hands and I am
trying to make good sense out of a history I've had to live through.

I remember how when I was small, I watched Nightmare Before Christmas,
and the character Sally bravely leapt from her confinement to the pavement.
She took the needle from behind her ear, tucked into her long hair, and neatly
stitched the limb that fell off of her makeshift body, stuffed with autumn leaves and magic.
The seams lined up neatly and the stiches looked self-assured and unself-conscious.
Her body was a roadmap of experiences and escapes, of will power and delight.
I wore a plastic needle behind my ear for years, pretending to stitch myself together.

I remember there are shirts in the wooden chest that need mending, so I go searching for
a needle and embroidery thread. I was never a skilled seamstress, so I figure I might as well
make the stitching look intentional with decoration instead of trying to pretend something was never torn, and as I rummage through a messy drawer, I wonder, wasn't there something else I was meant to be doing?

It isn't pretty, she said, blood smeared up to her elbows,
the cosmos swirling behind the depths of
a clear crystal eye,
the shadow of a knife as fine as a
sickled moon reflected in
the ink black pool
of her pupil.

I see you tried to cut it out from underneath
with medical precision, but sweet child you were naïve
and forgot the first thing about surgery.
It's dangerous and a last resort, so of course
there is screaming and thrashing, complications unnumbered.

You can’t just pluck a nugget of cancer from
the cavity of a chest, or hate from a stinking gut.
You must disinfect, anesthetize, slice through layers of tissue.
Skin, myofascia, fat, muscle, to be
peeled back to expose the offending growth.
And even then, you might not succeed at first.

You do your best.
Then the treatments begin,
long days and nights of caring
for the healthy tissues and haggard hope,
while poisoning invasive cells and bigotry.
All the while you remember things.

Sunlight through the tree branches, and the encompassing
love that passes between people who are careful enough to
be kind instead of cruel.

The cool splash of the creek from your childhood,
and the way singing feels reverberating through your
chest, the tears that spring to your eyes when another's
voice rises with your own, joined in feeling and community.

The delicious relaxation of a deep breath and the sure knowing
that when you lay down, there are others who are standing up. So,
when you have had your restoration, you will stand next, so the next
person can take their turn to press cheek to the mother earth and sigh.


***
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Everyone knows to seek a pointed wide brim,
for potions and balms,
sage words and divination.

Beware the one festooned with herbs and feathers,
if the land is barren,
and the well is dry.

Notice if the spell cast is music you cannot dance to,
if the words ring hollow,
or the beat is not a rhythm.

Her eyes may shine with something like second sight,
but if her gaze slips and sways,
there are specters without answers.

The sky may be blue, and the yard dappled in sunlight,
but the smell of rot is under the breeze.
Sunflowers sway, and birds trill, but notice if the
tenderness offered is a bruised peach, all overripe and mush.

Find wisdom elsewhere, in the deep wild knowing of your own dreams.

***
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A spell hadn’t been cast here in a long, long time. She waded through the dark of her memory, barking her shins and stubbing her toes. The headdress was heavier than she remembered and it pinched. The stones on the path were sharp and hidden by bramble and overgrowth. She hadn’t went to the spring in an age. She didn’t recall exactly when she entirely had stopped seeing the gossamer threads of connection through everything.

It was a gradual fading of sight. It started with objects like keys and athames. The luster was no longer there, and she couldn’t see the swirling particles conjoin and make the new colors as she worked. She had still felt the thrum of energy through them though. Her heart clenched around the memory of the sensation, a kind of tingling vibration that worked under her skin and into her bones as she moved the intention, this way and that. She remembered the satisfying click of the pieces when they fit just right so it all balanced and hummed happily. The lump in her throat ached with the yearning for that sense of contentment. She lost the sight of the essence of the crystals after that. Then she lost the gifts from the animals; the feather, the whisker, the claw. The vibrancy of the plants was next, and eventually, she couldn’t see the auras of people either.

Those were lonely years. Without them, she grew distrustful and paranoid, unable to discern where her energy stopped and where others began. This is when she could no longer feel the currents reliably either. She felt invaded, drowned in the heaviness of boundarylessness. Every face was inscrutable. She couldn’t guess at intention or moods, their state of mind and deceit a sharp edge she cut herself on, more than once. She was taken advantage of, and hurt. But she learned, slowly. She felt like every interaction took ages with all the small details she had to analyze, and relationships formed at a glacial pace. The valleys and grooves of familiarity taking an age to develop over the long stretches she needed to make sure they were safe and worthy to allow near. She never invited anyone inside though. A sanctuary must remain a sanctuary.

The path became a thin line in the underbrush. She went on her hands and knees through the small opening and when she broke through to the clearing, two amber eyes met hers. The whiskers twitched and the feline sniffed her nose carefully. She stayed still and when the cat decided to rub its soft forehead against her cheek, she smiled. She knew for certain now, that all her years of stepping off the cliffside of her self-doubt was the practice she needed. The wide open sky was her domain of self-trust. She had no wings, but she suspected she could soar in a different way. The dreams had not led her astray. She had seen no tell tale glimmers, had felt no tingling pull, and yet, here was the cat. Just as she expected. She remembered the sense of abundance in those old days. When she followed her sight for the components she would need, but she had a different knowing now.

She felt her center drop, heavy and content as the cat in front of her, purring and rolling on the sweet clover. They made there way deep into the forest, following the sound of the water she had denied herself these past years. She had been ashamed and forsaken. The water was crystal clear as she remembered. Her eyes twinkled back at her as she leaned in close to the wide pool. With a sigh, she slipped off her shift and slid into the water easily, like she had dozens of times before. The sun was a conflagration of yellow and orange through her closed eyelids. She felt the reassuring hands of the guides through her hair and on her back, the tension in her shoulders loosening and her breath coming easier.

She had whatever she needed all along, curled into the recesses of her being.

***

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