Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend And life a faithful pillow - a pillow to go flat, a spirit to drift off, glaciers to melt and raise the sea. The blueprint is clear - Expect a tiny storm of mercy– full of crows and bottle flies to debride the corpse, to tithe the land. And respect the putrid demise - things that fall apart make space for miracles. Yet there persists the memory of breath rinsed in lavender and salt air. Then the dreams for blood and semen to revive, to metabolize every tired, sad gospel into a hatch of octopus. Death confesses everything as she conjures her necrosis, as she feigns redemption, fools us with false devotion. She believes our defiance will set her free. We must let grief to be the thread and needle to darn the rend, renew the cloth. then we can grasp the nascent green of winter wheat in spring.
Finding Grace Giving Grace Being Grace Today five cranes flew by my window East to South. The new sun blushed with morning, and I reminisced on waking up with you in the red metal bed that fit us like a glove, white cotton around our whole selves as we moved as priestesses do, spent from ceremony. We spooned still tethered in dream threads, sleep thinning with the mist outside. How did we get so lucky? The smooth fit of our bodies, gently finding grace. We hope this moment will cycle back again and again ; that we could replicate such blessed disruption as if it weren’t like the tides and the weather. How many others among us, calling this blue green miracle, home, woke to disruption - to a 7.8 earthquake, a thirty-eight-railcar crash, a Russian missile in the roof? It boggles my mind, how our Great Awakener came in waves of pleasure and pummeled others with a big mean stick. We will never be the same. They will never be the same. Nonethel