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The Festival of Lights

Lights shining in the distance, Leading people to dance, Eating delicious food, Along with friends and family, People praying to god, Surrounded by bright colors, Arrays of flowers, Gifts are given, Fireworks illuminate the sky, The feeling of happiness, Spreads through people, Diwali is here.

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Behind the Stone

Easter morning you pull on black hoodie, force calloused feet into red Reebocks, deny three times you’re in a rush, blow off brunch. No leg of lamb for this eighteen-year-old. I slip an oversized card into my purse. Easter, after all, is about hope. I envision you sauntering past hostess stand, late, table for four,

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on the anniversary of your passing

instead of sorrow, i will mark the day with ceremony, from the moment of waking to the feel of my body’s curl under darkening covers i will breathe ritual, so that even coffee’s steam will recognize its incense, offer grounding, so that even work will fall into quiet rhythm. instead of tears i will laugh

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transition

the moments in between time as i become two my midwife tells me this is transition but words don’t happen in the moments of birthing moments don’t happen time is but a marker on my midwife’s watch 60 seconds 10 centimetres heart rate. contraction. push. time doesn’t happen in birthing. birthing happens outside outside and

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ritual of fire

roots , flesh and grain offered up as sacrifice by ritual of fire upon white hot coals aromatic with mysterious unguents the high priest turns and gathers them with implements of sacred wood and iron prepares them with anointments of secret herbs and lotions with eyes and hands by ancient signs examines them announcing at

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Mother Of Pearl

I cut you from my thighs and birth you like I was from the lips of the shell in which I stand, swaddle you in love and tie you tight in ropes of freedom, use locks of hair to wash your face and dry your tears away before I offer you to the gods from

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The Path

It never happens at the call of the moon, The crust of dawn ever watching, Nor the blush of leaves from green to brown, This flourishing happens quietly. A peaceful pact of one-to-one, Laying plans at their feet, Collecting dreams like acorns, And planting them deep. A promise that’s sworn in blood, The marrow of

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Late Spring Rites of The Middle-Aged Apostate

I brush my teeth like there’s god in it, split my medications into morning & evening prayers. Offer a word for the ambulance drivers, another for the small squirrels & lizards that they might outrun the dog. I am learning to make & hold eye contact. To practice asking people what do you mean by

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Inscape

My nisei mother wept the moment Her mother’s soul winged In West Hiroshima from her body. Who knows the circuitry Of dream-time, Stitchery of omens, Coordinates of a dream-province, Secret topography of wishes and fears? This is the planetary skin Easily cut, easily abraded: A half-crucifixion in the dark.  

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Re-wilding

letting trees grow unchecked runs counter to our quest for order weeds in front lawns meet disapproval and pink work-orders from city council prodded by offended neighbours the weed-and-feed crowd, who stroll past our wilderness, noses pointed skywards, unobservant of the inhabitants of our park easier to love our yard in summer when all visible

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