Ascension

No stars existed
not one pinhole of light
in the black
expanse of time and
space, a galaxy removed
from planets and people
feelings and truth
an unlikely cocoon
where a latent image
appeared, flimsy and
unfocused,
a haze on the
negative I dared to
hold up to the light

I reached for the
magnifying glass,
hoping to define it
and words spilled out-
breaking the silent
void of my womb
letters floating and
now captured
with each click of
my pen to paper
the image clear,
defined,
my own reflection
with wings

I flew up
and out.

 

DSC_0996

DSC_0997

DSC_0998

DSC_0999

DSC_1000

Water


As I near the end of my series of photos and words with the red balloon, I invite you to check out my previous posts.

In many ways, these posts, collectively, are my emancipation proclamation.


DSC_0982

When i ascended the stairs to
the attic their creaking announced
my impending arrival.

i stooped to enter.

sunlight slanted through
a small closed window
illuminating the cardboard boxes,
the rocking chair, the shoebox filled
with crayon drawings, the dust descending
in stale, hard to breathe air
like miniscule snowflakes swirling
on a cold winter day
but it was spring and warm and
cleaning out was in the air of my head
(the dust had settled)

it grew dark
rain descended upon the roof
so close to my head
each raindrop a mighty pellet
pummeling, producing sound in waves
echoing and loosening the dust
a memory, the bathtub
two inches of water my childish
body partially submerged
a plastic sailboat placed between
the space of two recently scrubbed
legs, lips puckering, producing
wind against stiff sails
it gliding towards my shriveled pink
toes before i stood up, clean.

the window, yes

opening it, wide, the storm
answering with water falling
harder and faster
the attic filling, my tears of joy
mingling no fear the water rising
a deluge welcoming its currents
pushing me out the open window
floating my nose just above the
surface able to breathe watching
the boxes
the rocking chair
the shoebox come
sailing along too

my tiny bird, dead
cradled in cupped
dirty hands a hole dug
prepared for burial
one last wish looking up
at the heavens blowing
wind my own storm into its
beak, many teardrops falling
seeing slight movement
blowing harder
it moves, flutters its eyes
spreads its small wings
takes off, sails
with ease up into the trees
perches on the highest branch

the water subsides
my naked body
finds rest
a table
stone, warm
arms outstretched
overhead in praise
an offering- holy
innocent, beautiful
acceptable, pleasing

Just for Me

DSC_0981