spiritual language poetry & writings

a mamaist citizenship

 

 

I live in a country of darkness.
Dark eyes, dark hair, the darkness
of a garden’s shade. I’m surrounded
on all sides by water, where the dead
keep rising at their own leisure
as I listen, though I’m not sure
(how can I be?) what it is exactly they’re
trying to say to me, and where
the living go in search of
adventure, the unsurpassing love
that seas only can bestow
on whomever would dare to go
into (especially) those deep
places, that can cause such sorrow
at the awful losses, and make one weep.
This country where I live I barely know.

Inching my way, in meters
now, in a land where the air
all around, in spring, is full of flowers
and edible fruits, which for all Demeter’s
splendid beauty and powers,
cannot, once eaten, unensnare
the eater, who would be tantalized
by what in days past was prized
for being unattainable,
before it was spread on the table
uncooked, like raw fish popular
among my fellow citizens, that blur
of so many faces until I am able
to face myself, alone, in the mirror
again, and see, no, not in horror
but in thanks, the twin, the double
that, no matter where or how far
I stray, is always home, a star
in the distant field of my childhood wanderings,
where the boy lying on his side sings
a tune, or whistles the time away,
in a country where he did, and did not, stay.

 

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