|the ledges near portland head light. august 2012.|
Soul. The word rebounded with me, and I wondered, as I often had, what it was exactly. People talked about it all the time, but did anyone actually know? Sometimes I pictured it like a pilot light burning inside a person—a drop of fire from the invisible inferno people called God. Or a squashy substance, like a piece of clay or dental mold, which collected the sum of a person's experiences—a million indentations of happiness, desperation, fear, all the small piercings of beauty we've ever known. —Sue Monk Kidd, The Mermaid Chair
what happens to my bones, my eyelids, my nails, my feet, my sinews, my lungs.
what happens when the remains of my existence are tipped by familiar hands
i belong, in the place where it all began—what happens then.
a question?—it is beyond that. a method, a transaction in my mind,
negotiating between what's a beginning and what's an ending-that's-not-an-ending.
white ash like coarse beach sand, calcium phosphates and sodium and potassium
momentarily suspended, scattered, adrift in the soft memory of an awakening
rivers beating crimson body rhythm remarkably like this sudden peace
percolating salt spray, the grains becoming smaller and smaller, infinitesimal like
iodine, a journey of light and heat.
i am i am always am.
a simplified rarefied form, turned
churned, being delivered—there is no reaching, no
yearning. in this landscape sandpipers walk over me, crabs pluck at me
rocks and wind and water and sky are in me, under me, beside me,
through me. i am being reworked by the sculptor, carved into forms
like folding breath, distant thunder, remembered scent, the strata of time
blue, white, yellow, orange, red slipped into a small forever
calling forth this love, this ecstasy ablaze
in fiery display. countless pinholes of light
blinking in, then one by one, blinking out.