Her face, her pretty dying face


Space. A bird lives in this body, blue. Her eyes are golden. I am blind. Clouds take shape, a kingdom is formed. A bird lives underneath me. Her soul is deep, a tunnel at the bottom of the ocean. I am deaf. The waves do not effect me. Everywhere is this pull of space enveloping itself. When I was a child I wrote a poem about a barren tree all alone, its roots buried in snow. Then I wrote how a little bird came through the cold gray sky and perched upon its highest sharp branch, puffed up its feathers and felt like God. But the tree was a hand, old and gnarled. A hand that had let go of the leaves and the sun, reaching up. A hand holds the little bird and lets it be what it came to be. I could be a hand reaching up from the cold, frozen dead. Life comes back, life tries. Space, a bird lives in this body, blue sky. Her eyes are made of windows. Soul shines through, sunlight cannot be saved. The time is now, I am not alone. I wrote also as a child about a boat, bobbing and lost, searching for lost things in the sea. But nobody was searching for the lost boat and so it was very sad. This little island of me, a boat cannot find itself. There are always dark things lurking below the water. Waves keep us searching and distracted. The fear I felt is in the still water. The water that has stopped moving and simply waits. The surface, the mirror. I sat in the suspended boat and I looked down at the glassy face, the sky. The sky made me think I had solved it all. This reflection hid her dark sorrow. Why, I asked the bird from my branches. Why do you hide from the sun. Birds say nothing, but you know that. Just a chirp. Sorrow, underneath what disguises the song, is crying not singing. But nobody knows me. I’m not really here. None of this matters. Her face, her pretty dying face. Nobody cares about a deeper love, where I found her. Thrown over a dead body in the sky. A cloud, just a cloud. No it wasn’t. And so I look up. And so I look down. And either way I’m suffering. I am here and I am not pretending you aren’t. I am seeing and hearing the dead fly through winter and I am opening my hand to the pain of this earth.

Her face, her pretty dying face. Sharada Devi

10 thoughts on “Her face, her pretty dying face”

  1. Sad. Boat shaped like a frozen tear. I told my mom that I can’t go the direction of the family. The dark despair of loss covered. The deeper love hiding itself. Like waves, playing, beckoning. She said my step-sister is at peace. I don’t know how your boat holds me in my emptiness. Creaking wood. Cracks to let in the light when we are looking down. Because the blue sky is too big and the bright sun too hot. For you, cool, soft, breaking, the end of me. I don’t believe she is at peace. Because my heart breaks at the notion.That she was taken by the water before her boat found the cool, soft rocks.

    1. Human Woman. I saw it written in the stars last night. I was observing it all.

      A melting tear. Ice doesn’t float forever,
      it disappears into whatever needs it.

      I’m not sure waves “play” I think they’re more like water being mesmerized by the pull of the moon. There is no choice but to cry.

      For the place we’ll never reach, although she calls. From the other side, before the human was formed from her sadness and frozen. Sent to where the sun shines and we feel…and suffer ourselves back to moonlight. Where we wait beyond body or time.

  2. I am not blind, but things get blurry. i have no answers, but i am inclined to questioning everything these days.
    Letting go, these age old adages of surrender. It sounds like giving up to me. Not strong. Not warrior like at all.
    Not Durga. She would not turn a blind eye. What is valid anymore? Everything seems under scrutiny.
    I would say i give up – but I don’t. There has got to be a better way.
    May be it is the way of me… whoops – ego infringement.
    I am not a bird. Or I would have flown away from this awful world a long time ago and not ever looked back.
    There is a feeling that God is dust.
    It’s everywhere. Not to be contained. Constant. Circulating always.
    Just watch a shaft of light in the late afternoon.
    It dances and swirls.
    You can’t contain it. It is always there. Just waiting to fall somewhere. A place to land.
    Is it really million year old carbon?
    Are we dust?
    Do we just sweep and whisk our selves away to keep an orderly house?
    What about these empty houses anyway? Will you ever tell me?
    why don’t we just land and stay settled. What are we waiting for?
    It is such a boring chore. this meticulous tending.
    Give me a better reason… ?
    I don’t want to land here. But it seems i always do.
    When do i get to get away…

    1. Empty houses. Land and stay settled.
      I will tell you, I’ve spent a lifetime so
      far enduring and waiting. Nothing ever comes. Emptiness, there is no such thing as waiting. If it’s empty now, before I have landed, it will always be empty. We were talking about stars and dust clouds just yesterday from the top of another strange mountain. We landed for only a moment.

      It was a prayer for all the dying birds
      to all the fallen trees. We make emptiness shimmer. The trees give sound to the wind.
      But nothing was ever there. Our bodies make light, because of the shadows they cast.
      We think we know, so we search…
      I have found nothing that would indicate
      I have ever left the place I started.
      Sound and shadow. Light and silence.
      Stardust for no apparent reason but to dance in an empty field of pointless sky…

      Thank you. I’m glad you stayed. Everyone leaves when clouds pass over the heart of God…I guess that’s searching. Disapointment in the former dream, a lower stage…a cryptic reminder of the loss of God into the hearts of man, the floating beast out of tune and lying…or looking for a landmark. I don’t have one. No one cares.
      You do, because however we sweep, true and ancient, this exploding star love unparalleled- is why we know we must never surrender until God does first. And I have not, shown you my wings or my walls…because then my star would fall on another useless floor as simply more dirt, when really it was me…done exploding. And I’m not. ❤️

  3. I like to watch a movie about gods because it is expansive. And a freedom from the feeling of damned dust. Damned because the particles are pulled together to explode.
    But these little explosions and clinging particles. Are perfectly moving in me
    Like an exploding star in my eye. I feel the movement of “my hand” in the same way. Through me. The same place, as you said. As your words moved and exploded

    1. I like to watch you, watch me.
      Eyes are stars watching from the sky.
      Gods are a dream that there is something brighter…up here, but there isn’t.
      There is you, Moon Shadow.
      As beautiful as the day you were born,
      with my love inside you.
      Due to explode any day now.
      Tracing light bodies in darkness,
      why have we lied to ourselves
      about the origin of love?
      Don’t you have that song that ends with
      “Twinkle twinkle little star how I wonder what you are up above the world so high like a diamond in the sky.”
      I think I’ve known you the entire time.
      This is what I’m saying,
      it’s not another theory, it’s a collision
      of hearts within heavenly bodies.
      Us, birth death and touch.

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