Motherhood Dream Song #1: Mute; Heliacal Rising
Motherhood Dream Song #1: Mute
I dreamt that we were again tethered—not
by chord, but by something wrist-thick as fear.
Your small, plump body toddled through the drought
dry dream space. Across risk where rattlers long
as Cadillacs spelled come across.
tore me out of the dark. Sun light split sky open
and red as a pomegranate. Next to the front door
the snake, a black flag, curled, itself on sandstone.
You were already threaded back into the noise of your life—
In your too large arms and legs like a spider.
I must have left my silver voice in the dream.
When I tried to speak. When I tried to warn.
You were just the echo of footsteps.
Darkness was everywhere—I was under
soil as if underwater. Seasons drift
in like a fog. See them hang on the far
off trees? I am good at holding my breath,
even for this duration. But, without
air, one loses sense. Time softens, a creek bank
that’s slowly been washed out. I forgot my
story of origin – what I’ve whispered
to myself since I bloomed in full purple
on the sun-facing mountain. Planted, my
bones have become weapons: Jag of jawbone,
saber of hip. I’ll fight my way out.
Then, one dark night, I rose from the earth
and saw six glowing jewels hovering
on the eaves of the forest.
They looked like doves roosting,
awaiting dawn’s pink syrupy call.
Once their heliacal rising signaled
the beginning of a journey. So, too, I rise
from my grief into catasterism.
Shall we play a game of erasure? How
many times have their stories been re-told?
I’d like to believe they were the daughters
of Amazons. Women, too strong, to stay
rooted to the ground when the Gods pursued.
So they became, muscles, feathers and air.
There is power in the re-telling.
Up here, boomeranged in my orbit, time
refocuses, becomes the old friend it
once was. Six strong bodied sisters are
pulling me up. We flex at the moon. Rain
is our power. Creeks, rivers, seas gather
our strength. Together we can disappear
whole cities in the wake of our mud.
Once I was a wild iris blooming
on a stony slope. Risked boots and their trample.
Now, celestial, my star weaves through the thick
arms of six others. Night falls and we rise.