tiny meager mighty things

How do we hear what speaks in echoes?

if we hush our breath

can we hear the ancestors dance?

is that my ancestor’s skirt rustling in the wind?

who but the gods can tell

with their journals full of secrets

like Laplace and his demon

chronicling memories of the past

creating infinite space for future dreams

Isis

sits scrawling lazily

tiny meager mighty things

Icarus

spreads their wings and shoots

directly into the sun

on earth we call it lightning

as their wings fall from the clouds

feathers scatter then burn

before ever reaching ground

Bast

bast.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The box where I put us spilled open

the cat knocked it off the shelf

mischievous beast, meddlesome Bast

I think she’s tired of her protective ways

longing for ancient days of war-torn destruction

she seeks to make a battleground of my heart, for revenge

Yesterday, Bast asked me to pray to her

for protection, she said.

Politely, I declined

Now I glance up to find her watching me

she sits on the shelf where I’d hidden us away

casually licking her paws, feigning nonchalance

but I see her eyes gleam

they laugh as she watches my fingers

scramble to collect piece after piece of us

shattered and whole, they slip through cracks

in floorboards before I can retrieve them

forever lost to dust & fate

& the Will of the Gods

I cut my finger on your face,

it starts to bleed & I look up

Bast stops licking her paw

she’s still staring, and I can hear her eyes whisper

‘Now will you pray?’