Rainy season
I.
Thunder breaking low over the afternoon pressing
Tell your secrets to them
a pandemonium of parrots into the trees. It takes a
days worth of rain to relieve the tension in the air
thunder and the curtains lifting.
II.
I am listening to the muttering dark and how much
older the cricket sounds singing at the bottom of the
wall tonight. Rain slides down around the pebbles in my
grizzle root hair that fixes me in the dirt, fixes me
to the underworld and all the voices there.
III.
There are games you lose to yourself. You stay anchored
to the room through one barely open eye, anchored to
Who you talkin’ to?
the world by a slimy silver line, still as a boat marooned in
Who you talkin’ to?
a cave, lightening cracking outside, over the night, over
the vast awakening water. You feel the pull of echoes
kaleidoscoping too fast to grab, each mutation a little more
threatening.
Hold. Hold. Hold.
The sound of approaching footsteps pass and finally fade.
A hand reaches in and touches the mirror.
asha
Costa Rica, 2009
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2 comments:
Ah, so very fine. I felt the endorphins flow and they went to my eyes and I teared up. What a mystery is poetry when it's done so very well!
The only other poet who can do that for me is the Australian poet, Les Murray --who might one day pick up the Nobel, according to a consensus of people who are 'in the know'.
Bloody great stuff, Asha.
Bob, thank you. It is good to know a friend such as you is in the world. Best to you.
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