a collection of poems i rediscovered

Neither a person entirely broken
Nor one entirely whole can speak.

In sorrow, pretend to be fearless. In happiness, tremble.
--jane hirshfield

**

NEVER YOUR MOTHER

I who was never your mother
push you back in that womb
head first
muscle and suck you through
where you might have sucked
claim & baptize you in that
red basin
flood your openings with
blood-made-fire
cook organ muscle 7 soul back
down to cells

you then
sac of clean hot pebbles
I rip it open & tip you out
the you is gone
what's left is mine:
from pinkening whitening steam
lifting spreading wings
brush and cool my heart

jane adam

**

Mind led body
to the edge of the precipice.
they stared in desire
at the naked abyss.

If you love me, said mind,
take that step into silence.
If you love me, said body,
turn and exist.

--i don't remember

**

How It Flew From Her

From her mouth. It gathered its small, soft body and leapt
forward, up and out. And then it was gone. She knew
because of the dark hollow in her chest, like the place a woodpecker makes,
keeps making, until it's emptied the wood of food
and moved on. She didn't try to stop it, because she didn't know
what it was; what came from her mouth
looked like a white moth, the kind that eats wool, so she clapped her hands,
chased it to the window, pulled the shade down
and pretended that was that. It's surprising it stayed
as long as it did, because most of all, she made it wait. She made it wait
while she beat a dead horse, hit the nail on the head, drove her point home,
split hairs, threw fat on the fire, killed birds with a stone.
Naturally, it grew tired of waiting,
tried to tell her, made a few practice runs, beat its wings;
she could feel it, don't tell me she couldn't, she could hear
the wings beat. She still feels it, like when you lose an arm or leg
and it aches but there's nothing there
to ache. That's how hollow she feels. She talks a lot, laughs
with her mouth open wide. Not everyone knows why,
but I do: she's making a place for it to come back to.

--amy dryansky

**

... if someone doesn't want to hear the song of the reed flute, it's best to cut the conversation short, say good-bye, and leave.

--rumi