Journey to Your Deepest Self

Hole Self

Out on the edge of things- edge of comfort, politeness, legality, acceptability, of “what we do”, there aren’t a lot of arms holding you. There aren’t a lot of voices reassuring you. Because you’re somewhere no one’s ever been. You don’t know. And you know you don’t know. You are leaning, balancing over the edge toes tingling, gripping. Hoping to feel some security about the place that’s here. The world is burning behind you. You will surely burn with it, if you go back. But it might be a slow burn, smoldering and singeing. Jumping will be a death too. You will be changed. Your children will be changed. It’s time to jump, or burn. The swirling clench deep in the belly wants to scream the walls down. Help me! Wants to panic and sob with wild abandon. And throw things across rooms with brick walls- smashing, breaking, crashing, deafening, blinding, gasping. This is too hard, maybe it’s a mistake, go back, fall back, fall apart, I can’t do it. Take it away from me. I don’t know how. You become the gaping, yawning hole opening over the edge. How can you hold a hole? How can a hole fall into...

The Box

Looking inside my basement I find dirt, cobwebs, spiders, dampness, old things. Canning jars full of unidentifiable preserves on shelves to my right. A bare bulb lights up the washer and dryer and I smell laundry soap and mildew. The air on my skin feels icy-sharp, cutting. An old rug is rolled up beneath the shelves and boxes are stacked at the back. One of the top boxes has been opened and newspaper is caught mid-slither reaching for the floor. A high window above the laundry area shows ground level behind some camellias. I hear voices, just the music of voices without the lyrics, outside the window there. Humming. The camellias are in bloom. It is February. It’s just rained and I long to pack myself away in that open box and listen to things forevermore. I’ll smile to myself in my box and sometimes cry. Or tremble with fear for the girl being scolded by her father. I’ll see the dogs jogging up to the camellias and I’ll see them piss all over the window. I’ll sleep. It’ll be fine....

Loneliness

The wind is wildly throwing itself through the trees, and the streets. And the trees, they are bending and twisting. Peyote dancers feeling into the world beneath the world. The sound is like the ocean slamming itself against the steady shore. Then the wind seems to inhale. Silence. Just like when the water goes from noisy simmer to boil. For a moment it’s quiet. Then the papers fly off the tables and the cat hides under the bed. I can see the gold finches clinging tenaciously to the feeder. My legs stretch out. And I wonder who knows I’m...

What If I Told You

By Pam Bolton and Kathleen MacGregor What if I told you It was me? I picked up the stone And threw it At the bird’s nest And knocked it down To the ground And all the babies died. What if I told you It was me? I took the jumping mouse From the jaws, the paws Of the cat And held it Warm in my palms Until, hours later, It died. What if I told you All day yesterday I didn’t care And the day before I can’t remember Where I was or How I felt? I wanted to be somewhere Else, anywhere And I was. I was in the nest, On the ground, Dying, In my own...

A Kind of Lust

It’s August. September’s on the way. This is the time when she weighs herself down with lists, classes, meetings chores have-tos and should-dos. A kind of lust Has come in. The sea wants to carry her away to a foreign country. With or without her family. With or without saying Good-bye. With or without coming back. No thought of returning now- only flight. A kind of lust, so hard to resist. But resisted, oppressed. Desire. She doesn’t know why it has to be this way. Or at least why it has been this way. Part of her is already gone. There is a vacancy in her face and in her body. She is turning, like the leaves, toward the sinking sun. The draw to follow him down. Down to the south. Italy, France, Spain Or Africa. There. Where the sun never stops kissing his Earth kisses her to death. Desire. Desire to walk down crumbling stone streets wearing high heals which click and echo off the ancient, mumbling walls lined with old women in black and children who stay up late. Desire to hold orange blossoms in her hand And feel her own dress swing and brush her legs. To hear the voices of the men smoking on their...

Sometimes

Sometimes I do nothing all day but stare out the window and watch the garden standing still. Occasionally shifting her feet or scratching behind her ear. A sigh. A sigh. A...
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