Salome

They called her hair windswept when it blew across her face. Salome’s mother always said it reminded her of a wise woman, walking along a shore. Her baby, bound for greatness. Salome’s mother always told her she could do anything, be anything, sky’s the limit. I guess Salome took her seriously. You could often find her walking along ledges, arms spread wide. Everyone thought it was to steady herself, but now it seems maybe she was doing something else. Practicing, testing her limits.

It was a neighbor who spotted Salome first, slowly making her way up the top of the cliff. He saw it from the edge of the village where they lived.

Ital was sitting on his rooftop, warm clay beneath his hands and feet as he leaned against the edge, pulling on a hand rolled cigarette. He watched Salome’s slow progress up till she reached the cliff’s zenith. He thought to call for someone, Salome’s mother perhaps… but when Ital heard the voices below, he realized that he needn’t bother. Already the villagers had begun to gather. Some shouted and pointed excitedly, while others murmured prayers and judgements.

Salome’s mother was among them. She didn’t seem as bothered as he would have expected. Though she did have a calm sort of concern about her, steady like a river. When her eyes found and fixed on her daughter, they remained there, unmoving.

Salome took a deep breath. Then she took another, and another. Closing her eyes, she began to center herself. She knew everyone in the village thought she was mad. Even across the distance she felt them waiting, judging, felt their eyes on her. Taking a deep breath, she sat.

The sun rose in the sky, it burned hot and persistent against her dark skin and she welcomed it. Salome had always found that the sun opened her up, connected her to the world around her. She thought of the Sun as one of her lovers, it provided for her a spiritual, sensual experience.

A breeze picked up on the cliff, carrying the smell of dust and dried grass and wildflowers up from the valley below. Salome inhaled deeply, savoring each breath, letting go.

The sun had set. Salome noticed only after she opened her eyes and found stars glittering over the village. Some of the villagers who gathered earlier had since set up tiny makeshift camps. A handful of blazing fires raged haphazardly in the mouth of the valley. She imagined they were cooking food on them, making love by them, drinking wine off one another, dancing and laughing. She felt the threat of jealousy tug at her chest.

Salome could hear the drums. Could feel their beat thrum through her body. She wondered distantly when the music began, it trembled the earth beneath her, Gaia’s heartbeat. Lightning bugs danced around her and crickets added their notes to the drummers’ song.

When Salome stood up again, the moon was glittering over the valley, making playful shadows among the rocks and creatures below. Things scuttled and scurried making patterns in the dirt. She could still smell it on the air, sweet and clean, like after a heavy rain. The dirt felt cool beneath her feet, it grounded her. Salome took one step, then another, until she was at the very edge of the cliff.

Then, she leapt.

45

The air is getting louder

Coming in with a harshness 

I don’t remember hearing

It jars me

Lately I have been catching myself 

Grinding my teeth

I will myself to relax

It is an effort.

Moonrise

The night the moon came down, she hung first in the sky unmoving, watching

She glittered her light along the treetops they danced in gratitude

I love you, you know – she whispered to the wind, urging it to carry the message along

Unsure of who she meant for it to reach 

Maybe sleep isnt an option

My stores have filled up 

Bout to burst

Bout to run on reserve

The right to be a cunt 

Im just saying 

Sometimes its tough

Pretending like you give a fuck

Just so you can earn a buck 

What is it to weep ?

It is a sad poet who has no words to express the feelings welling in their veins, no way to leak out the madness which gathers in the corners of their mind and chambers of their heart. 

How, when the shadow strikes, does a wordless poet allow themself to feel, to weep? When they know it will still live there, roaming through hallways and edging down corridors; timid, ruthless monster. 

It has many names, this monster which has taken up residence within my senses. I call it grief, or loneliness, or abandon. Although, the years have taught me it’s truest incarnation is my old, timeless friend, rage.  

Open Adoption

I used to check the mailbox every day

looking for something with my name

written in loose cursive,

with a Georgia postage stamp

telling me you love me

I dream of that mailbox

barren and sad, creaky door

flaccid flag, with nothing inside

I dream of ups drivers and big brown parcels,

just for me

I read your letters

to my mother

the woman who raised me

I hear the pain in your hand

when you ask why she doesn’t write

I’m sorry she didn’t write

I’m sorry for what was stolen from us

I’m afraid you’ve died

I look up your name in the obituaries online

like a ritual

So many have died

None are your age

It’s mothers day and my dreams say

I have repressed rage

I always thought it was a super power

Being able to stash it away, but

now there is only pain

and feeling afraid

My dreams tell me

I can’t live this way

Dreamscape

I had a dream that you walked away from me

Your eyes slid from my face like a sliding glass door

Clicking into place

On the street in front of you

You were wearing a black baseball jacket 

With a black baseball cap

Cocked to the side in the way that you do

Always leaning, always swayin’

And there was something in your eyes

A finality

Which leaves me wondering if 

Dream has finally merged with reality.

Strength

Blackness is not a thing that is easy

It builds you

Brick by brick

Bricks hurled at windows and cars and sculls and arms

The same arms that will pick up those bricks

Slather them in mortar and add them to the strength that is our being

We all wear it differently

Own it differently

This blackness

But its there

In our blood and our bones

To be black is to know a sorrow so deep it stems from a place that has no end

No true beginning

Just pulls us forward

It’s fire that burns beneath our skin

Lighting us up

Running like lava through our veins

A constant promise

An ever waiting truth

Crafting: 301

I don’t know how to rewrite my narrative

I don’t know if that’s true

I dont know where to start

I dont know if thats true either

What do I know then ?

I know that loving myself is going to be hard

Loving myself is going to take work. It will require me to breakdown a lot of ideas I have about myself. Loving myself will require me to unlearn destructive behavior patterns and learn the cause and affect they have on my life. Loving myself  will require me to have grace and loving tenderness with and for myself, in all my incarnations.