“I pray in words. I pray in poems. I want to learn to pray through breathing, through dreams and sleeplessness, through love and renunciation.” — Anna Kamienska, from “In That Great River: A Notebook” (tr. Clare Cavanagh)
It is a fear of waste.
There is anger, again.
There is nothing left
to do but wake up,
make coffee, write.
Held up to the light,
memories weigh more with
Salt, a mineral.
There are edges to knowing one’s truth.
We lived in temporary houses.
No one was home so we self-supervised.
Neglect and despair kept us full.
Competition thrived. Like ocean waves,
we conformed to the landscape
beneath the water’s surface.
I remember when the air smelled like summer,
longing and loss. Trees were shaped
by ocean breezes, bald on the west side.
Country twang bled past bar doors opened early.
That moment, the energy, left an imprint.
Yet listen well. Not to my words,
but to the tumult that rages in
your body when you listen to yourself.
If it is true we are floating through space
& each of us contain the stardust of a million galaxies
then our sun glittering receptive becomes asylum.
Exuberant in signification, one way to be eulogized,
we propel beyond daydream nations.
Expressive attraction becoming its own tender gravity.
Let us close our eyes as change is
accelerating is feedback looping.
What do you believe in: violence & power?
It is our right as poets to be suggestive
to value a secure spirit & apply logic of affect.
We know why the grace of a curve invites.