Islands of Contained Light
For years I've searched men's songs,
pulled them out like fish out of a dark river,
eaten them whole, swallowing my father's absence.
I used to want to change lives,
even if that meant destruction.
But it was never home, how could it be?
Home was in my head, a kernel of longing.
I barely know that other woman now,
the one who used feeling as drug.
Everything slowed down so I could see
each tendril of light. I followed the path
that's left when water leaves the riverbed,
searching one stone with a bloodline
I could hold in my hands.
Memory enters blood.
So many I have left
to their own lives, islands
containing their own light now.
I am left here
to go down into that underground territory,
the one I stand in with my rake.
I write against the door's banging, every storm
reveals tentacles of light
streaming down into the dark
breath of roots.
Issue #3, September, 1998 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.