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

light:

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