Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Angels and demons are not so distinguishable

In her head: a voice hawked her swiftly
into a kaleidoscopic wonderworld: triangles, stars,
trapezoids swirled
above and through her, she became

aware of a ringing from a rock-- an outer tinnitus in the silence, in the light
moss dripped and hummed its green. The presence was there-- that voice
in her head ushering her over her shoulder, over a cliff

in the black dark, feet leaving fogged prints on tile, she removes her clothes. She is not beautiful
naked-- a secret she wants to undress for the world. She is not beautiful naked
and in the dark-- free, she stumbles

Is it angel or velcroed-demon? Shamans say mental illness is a merging of the spirit
world into the earth world, a message to pass into a human body. What message is she meant to carry? What message so worthy of the burden.

The meds have all but taken the presence away, closed her portals tight so barely

but she remembers how she once brewed under moonlight buckets, how she counted numbers till they meant something holy, how the world groaned fluorescent, all the time: meaning in every damn thing, every damn thing a doorway, a meadowsweet's beckon through it, so she could turn another fragrant corner into endlessness

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