Time stood still in that late spring shower
that did not bring flowers, but waves
of pleading heartbreak;
an ordinary morning
of hot water washing clean my body,
burning open wounds,
search lights to the gods:
“Is anyone out there?”
Please, I can’t take this anymore.
When will I let him go?
The man whose arms no longer wrap around me.
In the darkness he came to save me from,
as I “drugged” him down
into the depths
of Hades,
fist bumping my best friend Death,
until he said
enough
with “girls like you.”
My savvy red claws, not strong enough to keep a living will
from leaving.
Loneliness, my old friend—hello;
in the scalding hot shower,
April rhythms,
baptizing my nakedness.
I begged for help from the shamans;
they sent me to Puerto Rico.
On my soul trip,
healing hurricane destructions of the land and heart.
I was determined to rise with the angels I met,
who taught me how to dance again.
Singing to the drums I felt in my veins,
bleeding out
into a new season
of fierce love,
belly cackling under the gravity of a full moon,
discovering seashells of power
in an ocean paradox of calm annihilation.
And so I return, three months later,
on a plane named United.
An August initiation
to let go
of control,
blood-choking freedom
like a manipulative friend
who smiles and stabs you in the back
of a life desperately pleading to be lived.
Shaking shackles,
because your name is freedom,
written on the skeletons of our ancestors.
When our ego burns to ashes,
we feel the collective embers
raging to rise,
an Army of Phoenixes
who remember
birthright worthiness
just because
they exist.
I beg you,
mortal beings,
honor the rhythm of change
pulsing through your marrow.
Volcanos bursting passion through your veins,
in this one fairy-tale eruption
that is called a human life.
Yours.
The only one you have.
Wear gratitude as daily armor
to remember.
The spider, hanging on the delicate web,
invisible
in the early morning Puerto Rican breeze.
Dog and rooster melodies
backdrop the lush green,
grown back from hurricane obliteration.
Shhhhhh…
let the wind flow through your messy hair
and trust the secrets of quiet mornings
patterned from dream weavings.
Internal maps
not to be decoded with answers,
but signposts
gently nudging our way back home.
~
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