I do not feel the Earth beneath me,
do not feel my feet touching down
being pulled in
to something deeper.
I do not feel the cold Appalachian air in my lungs
I do not yet know
the name of its life force.
I did not see the leaves turn from green to honey’d shades of gold and ember.
I did not watch the leaves fall or witness the sky give itself unto elder-hood
And take on its winter shades of ice and gray.
There are yellowed ginkgos
And maple leaves like crowns strewn across the street here
I feel stuck in this loop of left turns back to his house.
Odin pulls me out and in,
Calling me when I have lost my way
He eats the fallen leaves
And I wonder if he knows something I don’t
about the importance of ingesting something so close to death
Something that will never be quite the same again
(I’m sure he knows)
I do not feel the Earth beneath me,
But I look at the trees,
Barren and cracking
And I understand.
Without rest there is pain.
Your own body will turn against you
Put you in agony
Just so you will please. slow. down.
It will reconstruct all the peaks and valleys you’ve made in your mind
And the pulsing of a newness within
Will push you to what you think is your limit
Make you believe you can’t bare another second of the crippling pain
Even when you know that is the only way out
Must give into the pressure growing in your head,
The thuds,
the pounding,
A new way is being constructed
(I cannot look into the light because I am supposed to be walking into the darkness.)
Your body will expose all you’ve held in to the outside world
Until the only thing left for you to surrender is blood and bile-
nothing is yours anymore.
You belong to the current of the seasons now
and if everything here is giving away and dying
you must too.

You are never late to the ritual
The ritual is the tenderness in which you greet yourself upon waking
It is the moment you catch a glimpse of the day moon
and remember
You were not constructed to be the same every day
The sun is now a remnant of Summer’s heat
that filled your belly
made you golden
And Autumn’s cool now flirts with the night
The scent of her temptations lingers in the evening mist
You can taste her after rain
Persephone is calling you to join her
Narcissus flowers in your dreams
Teaching you to court the darkness
as formidable as it seems-
In it there is a medicine so sacred
One that begs for your descent
Take her hand
Stained red and sweet
from the pomegranate’s seeds
Go,
Go meet the winter as a lover
Lie with her late into the night
Listen to her teaching
that you are never late to the ritual
“the ritual is in your body”

consume my medicine
gently
touch parts of me
not luminous
**** my shadow
into
a sacred offering

The butterflies
In my stomach have cocooned again
It’s not safe for them to be so gentle
Their wings no longer flutter
To the sound of your laughter
Each strand cautiously spun for every day
You offered me silence
They gestated to your absence
And now
I can feel them ripping, choking through
Their silken coffins
Emerging as little parasites
With viscous voices
Making me nauseous
So I have fed them
Raging fire
A single flame for every time
I’ve been abandoned
I have loved them
Into new formation
Refused to let them
Be a poison
Chosen devotion
As their medicine
I have fallen to my knees
At the altar
Of my own sacredness
Fallen asleep to the cadence
Of cicadas
And my heart
Still beating
I’m still breathing
In deep
One prayer after the other
Trying to mother
All the wounds
And conceive
Something sacred
From something broken.

It is not my new year,
no, no, no.
I am still unripe.
I am still gestating,
cocooned,
quietly dreaming in mid afternoon,
waiting for the stars to tell me my name.
I am still,
I am in grief laced with longing.
Do you not remember
you
are
Nature?
The light is only slowly starting to return.
The trees know not to sprout buds
the birds are still south
it is not time to sew seeds.
Nature is resting.
Please do not find discouragement
on the other side of a failed resolution.
Find understanding
that your biology is still clinging to any remnant
of your ancestors
of midwinter days spent fireside
eating warm stew and
bread with extra extra butter.
I hope you still eat stew
and pass on the salad.
Please let the crock *** simmer all day.
Please sip warm mulled cider
and sleep in,
sleep in.
I grieve those who chastise the Sun for setting
so early.
Is that which gives us life
not allowed to rest,
to sleep in,
sleep in,
and go to bed early?
I grieve those who see Winter as one
who consumes everything
and gives nothing.
I think
she is so beautiful in her barrenness,
in her slumber.
I have an unparalleled love
for when it is cold and dark
and the kitchen smells of my dad’s
Portuguese fish chowder
and I can go to bed early,
and sleep in,
sleep in.

I am digging for the devotion
scratching myself raw
to find the pulse beneath my skin
I want to feel the rhythm
of the moon and tides
building my blood
and letting it shed
I want to be in it-
the cosmic, sacred space
where my prayers and rituals
feed so **** deep

I haven’t been able to make my bed
But I ate breakfast

I haven’t been able to clean out my car
But I haven’t faltered on taking my dog to hike, play, explore

I haven’t been able to organize the shelf in my room
But I rubbed lavender tallow deep beyond my skin

I have been in this threshold
Between what can wait and what matters

I haven’t been able to even think about looking for another job
But I put out a book of poetry
(And it feels so small an act)

I hold the standard high,
But differently these days.
I am cluttered,
I can’t hold onto many things for too long
But there are things, my dog, rebellion, prayer, that no longer need holding.
I held them so long we merged.
They are marrow, cells, blood.

I haven’t been choosing to do those things,
actually.
I am able - without question I could pick up the pile of clothes in the corner of my room
and fold my socks.
But it just doesn’t matter enough.
There is weight-
Things to cry about,
and I have to, I must, call my mom if I am going to be okay.

So my bed, the pile of clothes, my car, can exist as they are.
There is no harm in mess when it can be cleaned later.
But my body, my dog, my heart, the genocides,
Require me.

So much feels fickle in the face of the grief and love I bear.
The grief
I want to plant.
I want to get my hands ***** in its power.
I want it to know my name.
The love-
Oh the love.
I cannot tell you of its expanse.
I can only bring you into the flood,
Show you the mountain,
Let you feel the sun.

I’m somewhere in a perfect limbo
Between yes and no
It has stopped raining
And the birds cry out
In beautiful language
I will never know
I soak myself in their melody
But the sun is not out yet
It is gray,
(Her favorite color)
And there is a lightness
When I realize
I don’t have to hold onto anything
I am not new to this
My heart is tender,
Like how you pound steak with a mallet
I know well the sting of the salt
And I like myself almost raw, too
I have so much room
And I love to let it be filled
With the after scent of you on my sheets
That never stays long
Then I look at him,
Digging feverishly into the Earth
For that intoxicating scent
And I see myself
Head down-
The hair on my neck like razors-
Scratching until my nails are stained with tiny remnants
Of where I came from-
Earth and stone,
A body in the river’s widened mouth
Whispering
Screaming to me
To please sit here longer
And love with ferocity
Until the sun comes out