Sita

‘Do not be afraid to suffer,

give the heaviness back to the weight of the Earth.’

– Rilke

 

There was once a time, when the sky turned black

and Kali rose to her feet.

Shrieking and laughing, she spat:

‘Who do you think you are, to try and follow me here?’

From the darkness Sita answered:

‘All I am, is strength and love.’

She’d broken the curse and walking on, carried this answer with her always.

 

She grew to be the holding quality of love, the womb.

And so, for many millennia, gave men refuge inside her.

Cold, they drew warmth from her skin,

Rough, they healed through her softness.

 

She gave all she had, no less

they received,

and so she was.

 

Until, one day when for no reason at all, Durga chose to shift the winds.

From no where, they blew to Sita a gentle:

  Enough.’

 

There was a pause and tremble,  as somewhere, a gift was rescinded,

a tether severed.

And so, the ground rose to meet her.

Back into the earth,

her heart sank down,

finally becoming

my own.

 

 

Artwork!

A story about fish

I hear fireworks.

No really,

I hear fireworks.

I can hear some white noise, but I think there’s something else too –

a heartbeat beside my own,

or is it? There’s not a lot I’m certain of,

other than my longing for certainty. 

When I was younger I had a pond I’d clean out every so often

I’d transport my fish friends to temporary bucket homes

by sticking my bare hands out and feeling around in the cold unknown

It’d happen so fast, you never knew when

there’d be a split second defying space, time and the laws of fish (which at age seven, are really all one knows).

For a second I’d expand beyond the possible,

and my heart would stop with theirs.

There’s not a lot I’m certain of, 

but I knew that was love

and I know you are too. 

One Summer

Two children sat at the edge of a jetty, on a lake.

It was that time of day where the earth cools down and stills.

They sat, swinging their legs contentedly as they gulped down ice cream.

Red and gold flooded the sky, meeting with a perfect mirror below.

“You’re sad you know?” The girl said, after a while. “I can feel it.”

“How do you mean?” He looked at her apprehensively, curiously.

“It’s in all those made-up stories you write.” He remained quiet. “I mean, you even turned love into a sad thing.”

 

 

(And this magical oil/metal leaf work is by Steven Daluz)