Thursday, February 06, 2014

water mothers

It is always night again when your boat hits the banks of the Lethe. Or it could be the Youza, the Neva, the Nile, the Amazon, or the Yukon. No matter.  It was safe on the river. There were no names, only cloaks of anonymity, and the rocking of the boat. Flashing from the forehead of the dark mother, a black light. Who am I, you ask her. Who. You allow yourself to be wrapped in an impossible blue bliss. There is a scent, as if you had been handed a garland of fresh spearmint. You are fresh, says a voice. A seam between dream and waking has been opened.

The house shakes from the repeated explosions of ordinance, miles away. You wonder, shuddering, how it impacts the small hairs in the ears of those who detonate it. Again. Again. Again. Who has paid the price for this, and who will pay it again, again, again? A few stray snowflakes sift onto the ice.

In another country, the blue vision of a poet has been torn away, his voice silenced. You hear this, are stunned into self-reproach.

What can I do, you ask, in his honor? How should I remember the selves we have all gambled, and lost?

The river answers, Go, now. Be a mother.


Harlequin said...

Two contrasting and engrossing pieces which quite put me in mind of the Strickland Gillilan poem he Reading Mother .... which ends thus
You may have tangible wealth untold, caskets of jewels and coffers of gold. Richer than I you cannot be - I had a mother who read to me.
But then of course there is the mother of us all
Good work

Iulia Flame said...

Ah. Thank you. Just my musings. Take care.

I like the quote from that poem.

(for erin) when i ask, where have the redpolls gone, and why the silence at my seed station your eyes, unbidden twin candles startle ...

popular on this site