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