-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

don't make me scratch at your door

My Maeve is bathing in her pool of subconscious meanderings of mind and you watch her secretly; single brown eye in the reeds, rustling. And on the other end of my stone shelters are the people I am calling for mumbling and changing and wondering at the unexpected abandonments. My sisters have left on their own adventures and I am naked here in the cold and others are trying to get in while I try to get out and you make circles but never enter. And I wonder how many others read from my wailing wall when I am not watching, attempting to be closer to my thorn covered self and I laugh at the irony the ways I scratch at your door while you are asleep and cannot hear me. -

I contemplate the sudden necessity of my squeeze through this needle eye of alone under la luna and the needful letting go of the ways that I cling to my mystery in the face of he. Warrior woman, naked painted blue, it is so difficult to put down my sword for you.

I remember you Eros, face in my breast like a child, soft hair, softer heart holding me owning me for the moment. Because I gave myself completely for the first. And my feathers have never felt so blissfully dampened.

You found the words that he and she had found that had struck me but the third time is the guillotine and I fought back tears of recognition at you as the �last on my list�. Again they are waiting for me in that room and I am closing the door.

I remember the small paper napkin poem mother about my push and pull and do I play this game even with you? You taught me well.

My watercolor stains are running bleeding one into the other candle flame burning music the way this process thrills me and I shudder in the ecstasy of being. I am learning minute by minute to plunge naked into the river of other the way I plunge into the painting dripping fingers, open mouth breathing in the stars and the iris and the rusted old boat and the bleeding and the laughter and the dusty silence where the oreos and the television and the sleepy lovemaking don�t seem so frightening at the moment.

You are somewhere alone sister in an empty room basking in blue metamorphosis. Giant pillbug.

And I miss you. And I hate you.

And I am blue eye in the reeds watching you bathe, circling your walls. And I am scratching at your door. Quietly.

3:46 p.m. - 2005-09-15
2 comments

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

previous - next