We speak of these gods as if we are not them
Someday our mind will stop dividing the world into colors and shapes
and see our blessed place through the eyes of a new born sparrow.
Where everything is one thing: Wakan, Sacred, Perfect.
Her eyes are spinning in their sockets in harmony with every planet.
searching frantically for an adjective to describe the mushroom clouds and the words of the bible.
The universe is a man we all like to call god.
A man with infinite masks that we all like to call adjectives.
Whether the shape of his nose is ever to be known, is beyond his control.
The day she looked into his eyes for the first time her jaw and tongue concluded there is only divine.
And that the masks she made could build her up or tear her down, name him white or name him brown.
And the fire she threw them to into crackled out sounds of liberation and a remembrance of her own sweet divinity.
She is skipping black rocks across the rio
as white pigeons flutter up the sides of man's mind.
And every snapping atom of her body was raging in place
That morning as she sat at the kitchen table
unaware that the orange juice falling into a glass cup held the heart of god in its color.
She will ask why the cat grazes its silken coat against the prickly pear at midday?
She will meet with her husband who has placed another mason jar on the wooden shelves of his psyche. Every day he carefully bottles reality and turns tin lids tight against the glass.
Pressing paper labels across their smooth surface with his thumbs.
Why she does the same and one day poured cold water over cherry hot rocks, bathed in cedar smoke and her own elixir of salted sweat and steam was placed in a jar too. And she called it sacred. How she opened the flaps of the lodge at dusk, fell into the cool grass while the heat of her suffering vanished from wet skin into the air to join the sun's scarlet and tangerine adieu.
How she called this joy, framed it and hung in her memory and on the walls of her heart.
How later she watched the evening news and called it blasphemy.
How we ever came to call ourselves insufficient, and god intangible.
How he ever came to see an upside down cross and label it mephistophelian.
How they ever came to cut their hair and rob the language from their mouths and call it sacrosanct.
How I ever came to disagree.
How we ever came to make nagasaki and patriotism synonymous.
How we ever came to see the metal trigger pressed against his pink finger and file it away as heroic.
How we ever came to light a fire in the depths of our chests and call it true love.
How we ever came to look into the blank eyes of our grandfathers and call it death.
How she ever came to look to her body and call it imperfect.
How I ever came to disagree.
This is how we forgot the only promise god has ever kept. That there is only one thing to call everything: Wakan, Sacred, Perfect, Divine
One day a village will come together and see every wall is made of the same straw and mud.
One day the preacher and the robber will meet and see they share a beating heart.
They will meet in my mind and you will see I have sewn them into place myself with the fibers of my hardened thoughts. A rich comfortable dogma that blankets all I see...
She will run from the kitchen table she see everyday
dip her hand in the stream and the other in hot coals and tell you
they are the same.
And our bodies will fall into the earth that we have farmed all our lives.
The starving tiger will sink her teeth into the vegetarian's flesh
and we will all be at a loss for an adjective.
And the jar he grabbed hastily as he was late for work, filled with bacon and labeled inhumane will crash on the wooden floor of his broken morality.
And he will see there is no need for words like wicked and honorable, foreign and intimate.
A tremor of truth will rock the stone opinion with which he built his home.
He will see the wind blowing all the papers from his filing cabinets into a humble fire.
And she will hear, for the first time, the atoms of her body screaming out their divinity.
And it will sound like the voice of his child as he came from his mother's womb.
And it will sound like the voice of her mother as she came from her mothers womb.
And it will sound like the sweetest song
And with taste like returning home
And it will smell like cedar smoke
And it will be the first time she peers into the retinas a god in the mirror
And it will feel complete.
and his mind will stop dividing the world into colors and shapes
and see our blessed place through the eyes of a new born sparrow.
Where everything is one thing: Wakan, Sacred, Perfect, Divine.
by my fella:
lyla johnston
0 comments:
Posting Komentar