Homing

Seething through the floor boards,

hacking through walls,

laughing down the chimney,

giving up the past,

recruiting all her limbs,

revisiting all her loves,

she squeezed in through her pores

and made herself some blood.

Her eyes were leery,

would not see,

her neck, heavy with brown dirt,

fingers stroking round her bones

etching out her skin.

Finally, she built the place of magic,

a curious mix of hope and uncertainty,

so she is sure that

when the time is right,

she’ll find the proper place

to put the holes

for air.

After the traumas, the sins, the wrong directions–when soul returns to body–there is the work, the building of a place to breathe.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

Photo by enzzok.diviantart.com

Absolutes

They come without warning,

these dysfunctions of moonlight,

shimmering through trees,

those great monoliths, with mother’s breath

 

casting secret codes on dark ground,

playing music few read,

singing songs fewer perform,

a silence fastening itself

to an open spot

in the ocean,

meaningful as any other soundlessness.

 

There is always resistance,

like a bud pushing through,

but when the sun rises and sets

what can be expected

are these furious forms

that can only be discerned

by their edges.

 

It is only on the edges of circumstance, wound, trauma or delight that we awaken. Unless we can stay inside the silence of it, we simply fall asleep again until the next edge strikes us.

© Andrea Mathews, 2104

Deciding

A wild call from some

ancient dream

drives the rapids

thrumming her veins.

 

Split the wood—

spit in the fire—

while arcane whisperings

drive her bristling bones

insane

as she rolls the tent come dawn.

 

Only the water knows where it is going.

The boat is haunted.

 

It’s no less a decision

To get in and ride.

 

If we only knew that the soul is constantly active, that it is using everything, every choice, every haunting, every moment of chattering mind to bring us down the river into who we really are.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014