I imagine the ancestors, as
fragments of the dead, an old story.
The bits and pieces of their remembrance.
The blue-black body of one long gone, who
year after year, in his dark embrace.
each night, the myriad ones who, take me down.
I, who am absorbed, soaked
through their dream. Fear,
falls away through the ancient rites, to walk
amidst their fire and smoke, breathe in
the odor of their vanishing hold. Step
upon, old faces. . . old bodies. To
release old memories, until
they take new form, come alive.
You who draw me out, from behind.
Within the dark image, an open space, a
gap, a flow inside a bottomless whorl. Oh,
my watery body, my sorrow, my doubt
your face, smiling, your blessing sings.
An unresolved yearning, infused, with
the sorrow of the world, you
who keep me in love with the world. Your
mist which permeates, invisibly
touching, who teaches me to stand alone.