Recovery
You are of earth
molten emotion careening below
a hard rock
surface weighted down by water
staring at the blue-
black heaven that bares light-
borne striving.
Your face crumbles at one
snap of fatigue.
Your mother puts on, then disrobes
epochs of garments
cut by water, stitched by heat—
the seams show
if you look where you stand—
torn by travel
spinning and shaking the body round
a constant negotiation
of temperature change, what you feel
made manifest
in the structure trying out the spirit
in the quickening of cells
or words, a layering of sentiment recalled
by transfiguration
a letting go of what was created
a riddance of the body.
Your face twisted by unbelieving despair
that your god left
and took all you had
sought to know
and now you wonder who
were you to think
you could harness the restless
constant of creation.
You seek forgiveness and a vast
surface shines
unbroken by any thought.
—Sandra Wassilie
The Crone's Words 