To Order Disintegration

Here is Mystery

We serve the Queen’s
Tea with equal parts
Order and Chaos

We hide in the birth canal
Snuggling into a pain
We know

Pale in her full moon bath,
Nude among the lotus
Each month she
Orders Disintegration

Each time emerging
A translation of
An ancient spell

We cook lamb and mint,
Strawberries and pour red wine
For her Hot Date
With Mystery

The court whispers, peeking
Through the door, “Will they
Finally make love?”

She wipes her lips
And leans to him, “Do you
Want to fuck?”

Phantom Tourist

Passing gazes,
Intimate questions with
Strangers in the street.
This is what it means to be from New Orleans.
Walking by, visitor, where are you from?
Are you a saint or a ghost?
What do you hope to see here,
What magic do you seek,
What remedy will make you whole?

You ask to take my photo,
A thin rectangle appears.
I tell you to please keep it.

Spring 2019 (Edited and typed in Winter 2020)

Murder You, Anoint You Holy, and Call You Baby

Aware of the fear of the present
Moment that big cat stalks closer rustling
Sharp grasses. Somewhere between
Black gowns in my closet a rush against
Velvet and bleary eyed in bed I fumble
For that flashlight in the hot night & my sweaty
Fingers anxiously find the light.

There is a low thunder from Tiger’s throat.

& my trembling hands swoop a beam of light like a hawk in large arcs through the darkness

Tunnel vision. Rays and Squids could possibly float
In this dark expanse a feline predator lurks
Waits for me. Where might she be?

Cool sheets cling to me as I rise, toes first and spin, flashlight marking the walls.

Then

A parting in the leaves,
Expose
A pair of gleaming eyes
No, but it’s a mirror!
Oh, terror!
It is me!
Simply me
All of me
Ugly and sexy and soft, ready to murder to anoint you holy to call you baby

I wish I could look away

There is no cage

There is fear of the power within.

To Appraise Wonder: The Holy Mundane

I adore you quietly
You rest in slippers in my mind
There is no shaking of the
Walls of my heart
No prisoners, no hostages
You or
I cherish you purely
And yet I am hurt in the
Sweetest way comfort and care
Come along and take pain
Into swollen hands

& Heartbreak spends the night
With compassion and
I fall in love with wonder
At this grassy valley these
Soft creatures, again
And again that
Embrace the pain
Of heartbreak. The
Numb of solitude to have
A glimpse at a lover’s
Messy hair
Each morning to
Hum a body to
Collide with
Something Solid
Something
Human

I fall in love with the fragile pain of longing

This is not a story
I do not have to be okay
A happily ever after is not demanded by some
Celestial editor.
Censoring feelings and desires
Approving expressions of Pleasure
Rejecting the colors of Pain

I meet a tendency to
Chase wonder
Attribute healing
To grandness a possible
Exclusion not allowing the

Holy Mundane

To try her hand to whisper smaller truths
Looking for the drum beat
Listening for the bonfire who’s
Full moon is here? In the less
Exciting the Sacred Mundane
What does she have to say?

Maybe in Houston
In the Suburbs a
14 year old Blonde Girl may also
Look towards the moon she is
The Same moon
I might be dancing around
A fire in New Orleans, nude and
Kissed with emerald paint
In skirts in moss we sweat we
Circle hot air
Carries over to you
The Grasses under
Your Feet may be Manicured
Planted outside a Stucco House with
Broth colored walls. I
Couldn’t tell the difference between
The homes in your Existence yet
Maybe you could Maybe
The difference is all the matter
The Shades of Blonde
You choose to adorn your hair could
Make all the difference

Her Picket Fence
May look dead to me
Her mom’s SUV reflects
My moon crisply washed
Yet she is the same moon
I worship and maybe as
You gaze towards her
You will choose to live another day
Maybe you worship her in a way
I will Never understand

Maybe someone will find tiny spells
In Cracks in the Stucco
Maybe someone will find salvation
In a gardenia flower behind an Air Conditioner Unit

Those Mockingbirds are as revered as a roseated spoonbill
Those Grasses as meaningful as the haunted cypress

In fact it is I that limits wonder
I am not the appraiser of magic
There is wonder all around me
All the time.

You do not have to prove you are Alive



____
Fall 2019

Girls In Trees

I climb in trees
fate is thin branches
hold a girl’s weight
toll of a bell
sway in the turn of seasons
cling to the metronome
wonder just how far over these old houses can I see
how far
              can this branch bend
              take me towards the earth and
              back into space again
              spring me in and out of reality
life exists between sky and earth
life within girl in leaves and roots
in soil
death exists.

Doesn’t know doesn’t
care where she will rest

She
              Swings.  Allows fate to
              toss dice.  Lets the wind
              make up its own mind. 
              Sails or no sails.
Swings
Climbs trees
Scrapes on
              Forearms
                             Thighs
Thick bark in hands
rough
feel my skin

Just as I am

See me as the girl in trees

Now in trees
equidistant
she is the connection of heaven and earth

I place a crown upon my head
goddess of in-between
              connection
              meeting point
              electricity
              communication
              alliance

Sacred heaven
mother earth
I hold you to my
              cherished chest

Sacred body
Magdalena’s earthly presence
carried in silks across
continents
shared in a hush, in a cry, in a joyous song
in the net in leaves
catch the sun
hold tight my moon
crown glints night and day
water, dark star dust
floats through
the fabric

I am on earth.

Held in comfort
my arms bear, rejoice, uplift, empower

I stand firm
feet in soil
Hair wild and tangled in the wind

I hold in my heart
the girls in trees

—————
(Written Summer 2018)

Invite to the Viking Camp

Chelsea says she’s invited to the Stone Wolf Camp, says they told her to stop by if she heard drumming in the night, and I can come if I walk with her by her tent first to drop off her swimsuit and pick up her smores supplies to share at the Heathen Fire.

            Terror is equal to a molten curiosity in me.  A cloudy night, darker than you’d ever walk back in the city, dark as entering a great sea. A post ritual exhaustion thick in the air, but radiating and smoldering coals burn on a few more hours into the night. Chelsea, the lamb in the darkness, her small lamp spilling across faded grass as she leads us on.

I’d loved her as soon as I saw her, felt her rush and she is so much like Sola I can’t hide the magnetic pull. We’d met just the night before at Gryhpon’s Nest Camp in Springfield, Louisiana, not far from my home in New Orleans. My fourth stay at this private campground, with my Pagan community for the sacred holiday Imbolc which doubles as my birthday and I now have 30 years.

            All the way to the back of the property she leads me, brave and focus ahead, says we need to look for the big tires: the true entrance to the camp.  Bare feet find twigs and we navigate through partially trodden bushes and briars that have been gently parted over and over again and lull loosely back into place. 

            Low murmer of voices in the near distance.  Chelsea turns off her small light and slows her steps.  A warm light illuminates her brassy blonde hair and our bare feet are grateful to find a straw softer than I knew existed, covering the large area in a thick blanket, freshly placed down as a soft and clean carpet. 

            Chelsea holds a last weakened vine open like a curtain for me, as the low murmers fall to a sudden halt and we are left with the songs of crickets and we know we are being watched, they know we are here. 

            My fear grows to an almost unbearable pressure but it is too late to turn back, we see their figures, pale faces offset with dark hair and dark clothing.  They circle tightly around a large cooking fire, wooden shields and bright flags hung from the makeshift walls.  A maze of temporary buildings fill a large dip in the field that is Gryphon’s nest, they stay close to the Cypress Swamp that circles us. In a collective trance they gaze deeply into the fire, ritual plants wearing off and a welcome back to ordinary reality.  Women in chairs with young men on the straw floor, leaning back into the women’s laps. 

   Animalistic terror but I cannot turn back and Chelsea is with me,
she would not hesitate to step through the fires of hell for a lunch with Hades. Tired Viking men maintain a loose grip on their handmade axes, carved with protection sigils.

            The Viking King stands to give us a booming welcome with an order to make ourselves at home.  Warm, and fetching us his personally aged burnt honey mead, served in a bison horn and passed around.  The men shuffle their seats to offer us the best spot by the fire, passing us apple wine and a pipe.  The young Vikings pick up their conversation, lightly teasing and joking with each other.  Chelsea insists I tell of the 2 dreams I had the night prior, as they are a popular tale circling Gryphon’s Nest this Imbolc holiday.  I flush at the attention but speak as they watch me.  Smiling, they poke fun at my eels and we laugh together.

            When Chelsea’s marshmallows emerge, a man is commanded to fetch us roasting sticks, which turn out to more resemble harpoons, and the soft candy looks comically small, stabbed and perched above the flame.  The king declares his boar brought out, and a large shank, hooves and hair and all is placed on the fire and he sits back, satisfied.  He speaks with me for a long while as his wife dozes next to him and sweet young men shyly meet my eyes from across the heart of the fire.