soul magma

It’s a different kind of cold. Dry. It doesn’t get in your bones. You remain nonplussed by Plummeting Mercury. There’s no reason to cover up, even. It only moves you when some gust bellows down from continental heights, or some Front comes through Heavy. Then you take refuge from wandering winds, waiting for it to pass while you remain by hearth, whittling wonders willfully, restless but selfless, Not sure of the carvings, but knowing without caution and creativity all that remains of what once was alive, and then beautiful, could carefully curl into a pile of pretty, hard shavings and Kindling for some fire in some future you haven’t yet got a fix on, what-with the storm being so thick. 

But mostly, It’s a dry chill. Nothing sticks within, leaving you aching with hope that it’ll soon carry on, and give you a sight of the end. A damp cold can do you in. Climactic suffering without control without reciprocity, or even an agreement An understanding. An awakening from inclement winds too intimate for comfort, no matter what the Whether Man says. 

You know it’s good to be gone when all that wetness insulates you in a wilderness with no compass of quivering arrows Hungrily polar, reaching anxiously for the attainment of some source of magnetism, Or else pushed rapidly away, affronted by the cardinal urgencies pushing towards it. 

It’s a different kind of cold. Dry. You adjust to it, the thin air puffery and you learn how to steel yourself against what wanderlustful Windstorms Wreak havoc and leave you wondering, What the fuck just happened.

I heard it said that secrets warrant a name. To give me a name is to invoke me, and all that comes with me. 

First, I am Alva. I am Hebrew for Brightness. The Alva River is a Portuguese tributary that feeds the seas, and thus Everything. 

Then I am Vanessa. There is some academic debate over my origin— was it Jonathan Swift who coined me as a pet name for his long term lover and correspondent? Did he use me to entitle an epic poem of he and her where he is the teacher, and she glad to be the student? Was it a primeval Grecian deity born of a cosmic egg the one to bring to light, to revere for procreation and new life? Was it a silly scientist merely ascribing a pretty word to a pretty thing and thus an entire genus of butterflies came to bear my identification, flighty, colorful, temporary?

I am those and I am more. I am Kali- the Redeemer of the Universe, the Goddess of Time and Change. I am the handmaiden of he who, when he puts his foot down, the world will end. I will put it together again. I am worshipped for my kundalini. I am revered as a mother. 

I am Shakti- the Divine Feminine Creative Power. I am dependent on no one but am interdependent with the Universe. The child born of me rides around on the back of a rat and brings good fortune to those who honor him. 

I am Ma’at- the Goddess of Truth, Balance, and Order. The sun cannot rise without me. I am the fabric of my children’s reality. Hearts are lain in my Scales and I pluck an ostrich feather from my tresses and weigh your spirit against it. It is not personal. It just is. 

I am Juliana, the saint of Chronic Illness,
I am Dymphna, the Patron of the Insane. 
I am Hestia- guarder of the hearth and keeper of the flame. 

I am all of this:
Creator, destroyer
Brightness, colorful flightiness, 
Coined in a poem
Redeemer and judge,
Feeder of seas
Home, Chaos, Stability

You cannot entreat upon my ME 
Or my MINE. 
Once you have invoked me. 

become conscious,

regret it.

open eyes, see laundry

close them, 

pray to return to dream.

remember dream:

abandoned friend to help stranger.

regret it.

self identify as moralistic nihilist,

soul smirk at the oxymoron.

sigh.

roll over,

write words in red ink.

awaken,

regret it. 

Some rural symphony is singing
grasshoppers and tree frogs
creeping heat, thick with mist and
divine dreams and 
kisses shining like gleaming dimes
of affection stolen and scattered 
over milky glowing curves and 
angles of angels
blues, whites, moonlight
shadows, feathered fingers
searching like a blind man 
with ancient texts newly in braille
like the answer to the universe 
is imprinted on the backs of knees
the press of thighs
the hollow of a spine or throat.

outstretched silver alms between palms 
psalms of seraphim singing Solomon’s song
of milk and honey flowing 
from flowered fountains
from in between 
hips, lips, and the unforeseen
the unknown and unknowable
the downy descent from ladders off heaven’s steps
floating with some strange magic
into a comfortable question mark of two curled
sets of legs, two
sets of arms encircling, two
sweats of skin reeking of paradise
dimes on a moonlit night.

Love is the firmament that holds

the stars in the sky,

the jewels in the night to cast

direction to ancient sailors

navigating these same dark waters

where we know not

what fleet floats nearby

what foe or treachery awaits

what mutinous oleagineous silver tongued second thought whispers

quietly

starboard

board the stars

quivering in that gelatinous heaven mold

glean what light may shine from them

and glow in the radiance of the

burdens of Atlas

To take the steps is to tip the ship

and shape a different course

cursive wakes behind of what should have been

and cursing hates of what was then and cannot have again

It is with prowess that one

must stand at the bow

and raise head and heart and chin and

mastery of the night that one looks up

to navigate,

and not look behind

in the fading foaming fathoms of failures washing away.