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I wanted to be a mystic
when I grew up.
Untouchable, in deep communion
with the Power beyond
the daily bickering - -
I hated my body
which felt such pain beneath
dad's angry fist and kicking foot.
I wanted to escape
the tears and the fury.
The mystic life suited my
loneliness - -
In the thick, dark woods
behind our house,
I was free to daydream…
Singing poems to frogs and God,
caressing golden-haired caterpillars
and building castles for my Barbie
dolls out of stones and twigs
and stark green moss.
My living was ethereal
like a faint perfume
that remains in a room - -
hovering - -
after everyone has gone.
I could have grown old
without living in my body,
but your Love magnetized
my Being into its
earthen form,
Into shadowed corners and
into the gaping, still
altar room
behind my breath
where I lit devotional candles
to dispell the hate.
I could have grown wrinkled
without ever feeling the passion
of the earth - -
the sand crunching under my
naked heel,
the cries of burning trees,
the orgasmic release of the rosebud
into full bloom.
I could have died
denying human life - -
Existing only as a sweet
fragrance that is never inhaled,
and so, inspires no one…
as it fades away. |
