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
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
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
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.
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
slender moon spills milk at mother’s feet as peacocks’ rustle settles into silence yesterday’s mandarin sun swung low and lush lingers on earthen floor offers tender warmth jasmine scent casts a spell on those asleep mouths open like half blooms mother throws handfuls of grain to rooftop skirmish of feathers and vibrant plumes daybreak crouches
a tree is planted humble and graceful it stands, boughs stretch upwards as roots grasp earth’s rich, dark soil the eternal foothold that breathes new life awakening buds blossom eager to bask beneath sunlight’s warm rays and misty morning showers slender limbs unfold into nature’s sanctuary where squirrels scurry and bird’s nest among weathered,
the Buddha says everything changes: spring light widens into evening, snow falls, melts, falls again, a caterpillar chews through leaves, becomes sole occupant of chrysalis as if taking back misspoken words, transforming curses from turgid grubs into yellow-dotted fritillary fleetness in metamorphosis, speech opens, thoughts are butterflied, and eye and silent tongue in mouth
departures in the rain almost broke down almost spoke your name she was on the cross town bus wearing her hair like yours stopped at erie and ouelette as i walked by one misted night in windsor under a winter rain— she was sitting by the window half obscured by condensation her breath visible like
My Father’s City Reminiscing about growing up in the west end of the city, he never took me there. Cables of streetcar avenues sparked as whales on tracks passed by and made each building shudder, There on a rainy night, lights reflecting on the sidewalks, and the stores that once led different lives, a theatre