November 2013

poem25 Nov 2013 08:41 am
You burned my tales,
but I shall tell you
of how I ate the fruit
that bore my child.
I found it in the wet muds
of the mountains.
the thick trees
curled above
the foaming waters.
The flesh of lucuma is hard,
as an egg left too long in the desert sun.
This is no fruit
to be eaten swiftly.
I held it in my breasts
until it softened beneath the sun,
its juices warm upon my skin.
The skin of lucuma is green,
as the trees that huddle against the mountains.
The earth rocked beneath me
as I ate.
The thick trees
curled above
the foaming waters.
Sweet, sweet this fruit
though the taste
turned bitter.
Heavy, heavy the seeds
that lingered in my belly.
I stood beneath the moon
and hungered.
Sweet, sweet the child
that slid out beneath my legs.
Bitter, bitter his cries, like the seas
I used to quench his endless thirst.
The moon came to me as a beggar
and claimed that he had made the child.
I spat my seeds into his face.
You may say that this has not been told
the way that things should be done.
That no goddess could ever spit
her rage against the moon.
That I have not told the end, of how,
I twisted my seed-son into rock
and plunged with him into the sea,
turning the oceans against the moon.
The moon pulls at me in the sea.
The tide churns against my legs.
But here I always have my son.
Here I can spit at the moon,
and sing my song to the wind.
And I may say: shape my tale
to whatever words you wish to hear.
Whatever the tale you tell,
I will stay here in the waters, singing.
Uncategorized24 Nov 2013 05:41 pm

A friend told me that a death in the family feels like being in between the worlds, but when you come back to reality you see that the dishes are still dirty and the litter boxes are overflowing.  So the two weeks I mentioned in my last message turned into two months, and I see that a rough draft of a poem went up accidentally. That will go back when the artwork is complete — sorry for any confusion.