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WORDS OF EVENING
I have this ancient cherry tree to give,
its branches brittle. I've lost most of me.
I look for myself under leaves, and a
holy softness enters me, as in church.
The earthworms wriggle deeper. I have made
a self out of burnt bones entirely.
*
In my yard, the grace of a thick willow of
unknown years. The grace of tears spilling salt
down my cheeks, the grace of salted hair. Let
the mourners come with their questions. In the
forest, far down the winding path, where walls
of shale chip away slowly, where the hiss
of pebbles gives way to cliff-fall, and
the cave where the stoners sit and smoke--
there may be answers. I was alive when
*
midnight scarred me, but not awake. I
carry stones with me. I won't return
to who I was, not completely, or to
the boulders stacked on the eastern shore.
I have the grace of unwinding time. I
spill my contents, wonder and ask
why that hammer, why that bent nail, and for
how long? Why the pack of wild dogs, or the
thick-coated caribou? I have the grace
*
of falling often, of bruising little, of
a new dress I haven't worn. I'm in a
cage. I grasp the cold bars. I am a new
exhibit: the fading woman, freckle
on the face of time. I am standing on
sand being swifted away by sea, and my
feet are sinking. No one has touched my cheek,
cupped it in his palm. The wild dogs wake, the
yipping and howling unsettle my owls. They lift
one by one into the slate-black sky of
my interior. I'm vast within, blue
the walls of my houses, snow coating and
forgetting them. Constellations are my
neurons, face of porcelain, my mother's
face. The ocean caresses the shore, soapy
with froth, bubbles pop and sizzle on my skin.
*
There is always a destination to-
ward which I'm walking. I fail to greet
the gatekeepers. They disassemble me.
I fail to find a cave in which to hide.
If you need directions do not come to me.
I'm lost in my own landscape, too far in
to dredge thoughts and words out. In a
diary they're locked, in a small, besieged room.
I'm surfacing in my own ocean, with
starfish draped over my legs. There is no
sky, I float staring up at ribs for windows,
a sheet of muscle for clouds. I never
knew I spent so much time in my mind. Let
me out! I need a path out of me!
*
Some people find paths in each other, see
trees and rivers, walk a lifetime. The
lucky swim another's sea, watch dolphins
in their pods, whales breaching, fish leaping--
no nets, no spears. Years pass looking into
someone, searching for their sky while commas
trip me on my path. Comma, violence. For
years. Comma, substance abuse. Comma, the
lack of oceans, of any kind of water.
Comma, no kneeling within, no prayer.
*
The disciples stood, watched Jesus rising
until clouds swallowed him. He floated like
a lost balloon, past the atmosphere, a host
of angels baffled, mouths open, songs of
frightened awe. It is very old, the paper
on which this is written, words like lanterns
blazing in the face of the reader, in
the mind. I have journeyed out of the
holy place, only to find another, inky
with dark and midnight truths, words of evening.
*
I've looked into other people, let
them be the disaster they are. Like them,
my rivers dry out, and my stormclouds hang
like curse words. They withhold rain, scuttle in-
to another reel. The movie in the
projector skips, throws spots on a spotless sky.
The cockatiel of hope is caged until
the reel runs out. Boxes and boxes they
carry, the kind men, but I will vanish,
not merely move a few houses away. At
*
present, I don't hope to find oceans in the
neighbors. At most, I may find a cliff's edge,
and I have one of my own. Thinking of
how hollow others seem to be is the
apex of vanity. Their constellations
may dwarf mine in size, complexity. The
distant past housed both gods and heroes,
and so may their ribs. I've abandoned and
forgotten many of my soul's animals.
The jaguar in my neighbor may be lost, too.
We have so many beasts, and are so busy
with the outer sunlit world, its tasks and
shouted demands. I am a jewel-bright
dancer, footwork too soft to hear. To
center stage I float. No one will notice.
This is a golden shovel based on Aimee Nezhukumatathil's “Sea Church,” from Oceanic.
Enjoy other posts by Mary Ann Honaker HERE.
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| Mary Ann Honaker |
Mary Ann Honaker is the author of Becoming Persephone (Third Lung Press, 2019), Whichever Way the Moon (Main Street Rag, 2023), and the forthcoming Night is Another Realm Altogether (Sheila-Na-Gig, 2026). Her poems have appeared in Bear Review, DIAGRAM, JMWW, Juked, Little Patuxent Review, Rattle.com, Solstice, Sweet Tree Review, Tuskegee Review, and elsewhere. She currently lives in Beckley, West Virginia.
