Take Some Time

Take some time for uncertainty.

If the caterpillar knew what to become

she would die of yearning.

Seeds penetrated by the moon

burst open in blackness;

their perfect bewilderment

is the mind of nature.

Bees feast on pollen with no concept of honey.

Two lovers swim in sparkling juice,

entangling your chromosomes, shaping

your body from their chaos of desire,

but they've never seen your face.

Flesh cannot conceive how many

families of worms your death will feed.

Fisted in pain, a lily's bud foretells

no fragrance, no Easter.


Don't numb your heart with conclusions.

Let shadows lie fallow until

an unanticipated radiance

ripens your grief like a poppy field.

Be thistle rioting through cracks in asphalt

releasing silver slivers of seed-down.

Choose for the corpse a lipstick color

like Audacious Plum, Petel Rebel,

Licorice Sin on the mouth of God.

Wait for the kiss.

Be a charred oak cask fermenting

your doubts into burgundy resurrection.

Best not to know yet.

Take some time for uncertainty,

that jeweler's blade, that shattered mirror,

breast, and wickless flame.

If We Only Knew

If we only knew the soft light of the heart
we wouldn't call ourselves the Party
of the Left or the Right.
If we tasted the nectar in the chest
we wouldn't be natives or foreigners,
but guests in one wild honey field.
If we felt the warmth that
melts armor from within
we wouldn't be "for" or "against,"
Christian or Pagan, Muslim or Jew.
There would be no name for this
mysterious friendship.
If we dropped down from the head
into the fragrant blossom
whose vine entangles all human ribs
in a single trellis,

we wouldn't say, I am "white" or "black."
We would say, "I am pollen."
And if we followed the stem of this breath
back to the seed of silence where
rainbows are born from royal darkness,
we wouldn't cry about the rich and poor.
We would all be hollow
and whisper to each other,
"It feels so good to hold you inside me."

Art by Ananda Vdovic

You Can Dream

Dear one, you can dream
countless worlds without
falling into them.
Don't cling to stories,
and don't cling to the story
about not having one.
Then you can play in
the bubbling sea of silence,
where the vacuum sings
with virtual photons
that might or might not
be galaxies,
the earth is born
from your gaze,
and intimate bodies dance
in emptiness.
Not that there isn't an I,
but that trillions of selves
dissolve in each ripple
of the Void, all crying,
Artwork by Ananda Vdovic