My dear poet daughter,
I’m here with you
on the ground,
face in the dirt,
notebook turned upside down,
starting from the last page,
writing backwards
to the beginning.
Words flying
In every direction,
like hummingbirds
darting in and out of the datura flowers
shaking on the branches.
I’m here, hanging onto this pen for dear life.
Trying to make sense of it all.
The other night, you called me from an unknown number.
I heard him pounding outside the door.
I wanted to call the police,
But you wouldn’t give me an address.
Because he’s black
“And you know what police do to black men,” you said.
“Stay with me? “ you asked.
What else could I do?
Surrender tastes like cactus tea.
It’s thick and bitter and hard to stomach.
As I try to swallow my failure to save you,
there is nausea.
There are screams.
There are drums, rattles and lion roars.
Then there is a quiet remembering of Self-worth.
“Self worth”
I write the letters in the dirt,
like a prayer,
like claw marks,
with my finger, then with a stick,
hoping they will reach you.
The words scrape the air,
cut the Mother’s skin.
Can you take them in, dear daughter?
Self worth is a deep blooming,
a long blooming.
Together we find the courage
to open the heart petals.
Meanwhile, fruit drops from the tree.
Bees tend to the blossoms.
Ants tell the story with their tracks, cleaning the ground.
“Self worth” I whisper to your spirit that is connected to my spirit.
“Self worth” I whisper to the spirit of the young boy
who was smacked on the side of his head by his mother.
“Self worth” I say to the boy who has quietly beared his mother’s pain.
“Self worth” I say to him before he threatens my daughter
or lays an unloving hand on her ever again.
Sometimes it hurts to stretch the ventricles of understanding.
Sometimes I think there must be another way through
this labor of love, this divine reconciliation.
I am like a mother mid-birth.
I am Kali, squatting, screaming
“Self worth!”
Knocking down bodies,
stomping, dancing on their chests,
Breaking all the bones of anger,
of separation and suffering,
until there is nothing left,
until we are laughing with her,
sobbing in her arms.
“Self worth”
Let the inner fire burn,
the potential cook,
the destiny cool,
the way become crystal clear.
Let the hands listen.
Let them remember and reach for the pen.
Let the fingers hold it softly.
Coming back to the blank page,
that always scares you,
To the unspeakable wound
where you left off, where you left yourself,
and where you will find your voice again.
Writing the mind quiet,
writing time still,
writing back innocence…..
as doves coo above your head
and sirens sound in the distance.
Let this prayer be heard
in the tangles of confusion and betrayal
in the neural trenches of victim and violator,
in the cellular memory of fear, guilt and hate
until they lose their power,
until they are compost,
for lavender, sage and holy basil.
Here, in the garden
I remember a promise to be grateful,
to be kind, to trust, to be rained on.
I remember the sacred names to call on.
Mary, Gaia, Tara, Sofia, Isis, Hathor, Kuan Yin, White Buffalo Woman.
I remember the One in me and in you
who is choosing all of it.
I write with nose dripping,
snot running down onto the ink
smearing the black words,
turning them into crows, then clouds, then gray oblivion
There are no mistakes in poetry or life.
There is just going on.
Giving our attention to the moment.
Feeling all the different passing shades of light.
Giving language to indigo and violet,
to burgundy, charcoal, jade and sable.
Having faith in what we can’t yet see.
“Mom, I have to do this, “ you finally say. “I have to face him.”
“No!” I scream when you unlock the door.
I wait with bated breath on speaker phone
This time is for real.
This time is flesh and blood.
This time is now and no escape.
When he walks in
all the numbers on the clock fall off,
the past rushes into the present,
the dam breaks,
the room floods with tears.
“Don’t hurt her! Please don’t hurt my daughter!” I cry.
I send you strength.
I send him calm.
I send you Durga.
I send him Christ.
I send morning doves and crickets.
I send Palo Santo incense.
When I look up, the sky is a pink cheek.
The moon has taken her seat across from the sun.
She shines with half her light,
like you and I can sometimes half believe in ourselves.
This is the task – to keep returning to the blank page,
to keep listening for the next wisdom words.
Writing through the killing silence
and the noise of not enough.
Staying with the poem,
with the meditation,
with the higher vision,
until the next cycle,
until the ritual is complete,
until this little book can’t hold any more,
until Self-worth is full again.
On the other end of the line,
your voice is tender and shaky.
“I’m okay Mom,” you say. “I can take it from here.”
His tone is heavy, humble.
“I promise you,” he says. “There will be no more violence.”
“Or threats or alcohol,” I add. “With agreements and action steps.”
My daughter hangs up.
His words hang in the air,
a perfumed stink.
He has cut us off again.
But I speak to you in mockingbirds
that seem to follow you everywhere
And help you to hone your intuition.
You haven’t written a word since you met him.
You say it’s easier to believe in him than in yourself.
But what if believing in yourself isn’t supposed to be easy?
What if the work that comes with it is necessary?
‘Cause once you believe in yourself, you can do anything.
You can tell your story.
You can live a different one.
One that’s not weighted down by karma or conditioning.
One that’s of your own choosing.
Until then, I can only be patient.
I can only pray to Saturn for your safe return.
I can only set you free to your own creative work.
I can only lay a path of letters for you to follow.
I can only take a brave breath,
pick up the pen
and write us home.