Motherland

In the valley of my backbone

two rivers meet, the Ida and Pingala,

mingling crystal waters of the sun,

emerald waters of the moon.

The gardener is Shakti Magdalena

who comes in the darkest hour,

a temple priestess of the morning star,

to pluck the clusters from entangled

vines of pain and joy. I kiss her

on the lips. This I call breathing.

In her mead-quiet mist, everything

seems motionless, yet dances in

a faint exhalation laden with the glow

of galaxies. Wild flowers lie fallow

as weeds, yet bear inebriating fruit,

fermented on the stem. All that falls

rises as rain, as brackish wetland desire,

as flesh itself, marrow of angels lit

with fire, ringing the angry bell-beautiful

cry of a great disturbed blue heron.

Earth weeps insouciant poppies, still

foggy with a dream of ambiguity.

Who comes veiled in a lapis hijab

at sunrise? My sister the modest sky.

When I pass through the shadows

she takes my hand to guide me

down the soggy creek bed where

the bones of heaven lie strewn

by an ancient flood of grief.

This is how my body is my soul,

how all that falls rises, and wherever

I go, my footprints disappear.

No pilgrim can follow my journey

of surrender. When I am most wisely

lost, I become the motherland

in whom all men must find

their own way.


Art by EsotericaZosimoto