Sometimes I am ether.
Sometimes I am aria in full voice,
focussed breath from deep within, no, deeper—
from the centre of creation itself—
my truest self expressed,
I am full to bursting.
Then, transformed again,
as surely as night follows day
I am ether and together we are the breath
of everything, rolling through mighty lungs
in symphony with the stars.
Me, then we,
always breath.

I saw my mother in her bra
once,
the day her heart rose up indignant,
seized—
and brought her to her knees

She stood tincture in hand
lifelong faith in earth’s medicine
she still believed it would ease,
loosen the vice grip
(not this time)

That day I remembered—
saw her soft turtle body under the certainty
the marble godliness, life’s layers hardened into
a bullet proof vest—
I was held to that heartbeat
once,
I needed that skin like food
She was held to a heartbeat
once,
she needed that skin like food
You were held to a heartbeat
once,
you needed that skin like food

If I close my eyes in morning sun
I hear it still—
in the rhythm of the rain
silent sway
quiver of wing
lingering
deep ocean drum
seedling hum—
earth’s heartbeat

My beloved cries out—
I bring cool cloths, rub her back, I pray
and wait, and split in two—
As one watches over, the other packs her bags
and drifts into the night

First the forest and the fog—
I am blind with darkness and use my hands
to feel my way through
the unaccounted for,
the unrecognizable, flashes
of memory dismissed
Tangled branches whip, roots rise up
tiny monsters nip,
but I don’t run
And always the presence—
thick film and sticky, bearing down
too heavy to be comfort,
and cold

There is more air here
but I see what’s next and drop
to all fours
Now I am on the rocky ocean’s edge at low tide
Here the wind rises and I know it can
spirit me away
while parts of my little body are cut away and discarded
it can spin me into ether
Here it feels free,
but not really, false promise—
I will have to return some time,
to face my broken heart

I’ve been here many times
and have what I need: layers, rain gear
soft soled shoes
(we’re on slippery ground here, pay attention)
a locket, some string
and one match
The match is my beacon, string
keeps me grounded
I know this road, and will
find my way home

There’s no mistaking the hollow,
familiar ache
there where ribs meet,
soft valley
where grief gathers and pools—

so I close my eyes and listen close
to the throb, the
gnaw, the empty space

the beat and lull
the clutch and pull

the sway and flicker
holy breath

bitter tear, honey sweet
rain on drum
the ancient thrum

slick of moss, warmth of spring
the me, the us
the everything—

Life brings life, it wants to live
it heaves and swells
to rhythmic swing

the trill, the drop
the pulse, the pause
the rise and fall
the hallelujahs

Broken, like her mother
split like axe to wood, like seam ripped
insides push out, yet—
broken, she fights
yowling and kicking, she confronts
her own demons
then those others have not
broken, she battles
with righteous sword at her side
condemning hate, wounded
by disregard
broken, she demands
justice, love—
though she does not yet see
they are
one
broken, with tempest
to unleash
aim it at me, the first
to wound you, now you have a
taste of that blood
roar at the outrage, one day
you will find peace or that love is
stronger
but first, rage

If I am made up of air and ancestors, their bones
and cells and lives
their pain, their goodness
their disregard—
whisked together in the womb, and fashioned
each day and moment a reshaping—seeking, failing
falling, concealing cracks
thick with palette knife
or finest brush

Then I am the broken sum of broken parts
chipped rim touched by tongue
leaches lead—
best to throw it out,
or get the glue

If I am made up of air and ancestors, their bones
and cells and lives
their pain, their goodness
their disregard—
whisked together in the womb, and fashioned
each day and moment a reshaping—seeking, failing
falling, concealing cracks
thick with palette knife
or finest brush

Then I am both One, and only, cherished
child of the stars, and held
even as my mothers’ arms cannot
holy, not in Salvation
but in essence,
like breath
whole and in pieces—
there’s nothing to fix

I will her to put her feet up, my mother with swollen ankles
She’s been standing all morning in a hot kitchen
making borscht
I bring my lawn chair close
We three are sharing lunch, the breeze
through thick cottonwood shade
cools us

“I would lock him in his room”
says my daughter, “I would kick him in the shins
and spit”

We pretend not to hear, but her words linger and I taste them,
sweet vengeance

“Stop fussing. He’s a crazy old man”
“He’s been your husband for sixty years — he should know better”
“I would hit him over the head with a frying pan”

I watch as my daughter tends to Emo the caterpillar
She adds fresh grass to the jar

“He’s had a hard life”
“We all have pain”
“I would mail him back to Siberia”

Of course she is listening—
always an ear for a good story,
for injustice

“Betrayal is learned”
“So is kindness”
“I would poke him in the eye”

I leave the zwieback for last—always best for last
Butter melts in the hollow

“It is our destiny to learn love”
She does this sometimes, shuts me up like nothing …
“I would wash his brain out with soap and …”

She stands bewildered, jar in one hand
Emo lifeless in the other—
reconciling