Sunday, May 15, 2022

Mothers Baking Bread in the Cave

Morning crows. Slowly the insomnia shifts, the dream world insisting on its healing prerogative. We visited the beach where bystanders apparently watched Icarus fall broken into the sea, and I remember nothing but feeling superior to pagans and polytheists, which makes me sad now, which sorrow I no longer resist. Visiting churches in Dublin, drunken mid-day prayers. This is not what you say when you are trying to find a way home, is it?
The witch is hungry, so you feed her, and it’s not enough, it’s never enough, because her hunger is a form of anger, and what she wants is not food but the death of those who torment her. Good news! I walk slower going up Main Street, hands in my pockets, head down, having what some people travel to Alaska to get. Prisms at the bottom of the sea, near the wreck of the Titanic. What we learned as kids, climbing high trees in the forest.
Oh the funeral is just the beginning, trust me. Dogs wandering around the bardo wondering why nobody is throwing sticks. This need to render everything blue, because my hippie aunt had a blue light in her bedroom, and I used to sit in its ambient glow, studying life-sized posters of Lord of the Rings, learning a useful lesson about the connection between conflict and narrative. Use your voice, he urged, and I mumbled something in reply. Lovely dreams of surfacing.
Our bodies become the site of living justly, mercifully, and nothing else matters. The hemlocks murmuring in pre-dawn breezes, emphasis on gratitude, acceptance, letting go and passing by. Become Christ by degrees. Sentences which contain many plausible readings, each altering the poem in which it appears, in which way the cosmos are made explicit. Let us not forget mothers baking bread in the cave, let us not leave our Dads all alone in the sky.

No comments:

Post a Comment