Renewal
"Please, Universe, shrivel me into bliss..."
Welcome, and a warm first hello to the newcomers!
I’m so happy you’re here.
This week, the poems are inspired by Judgment, the tarot card that shows up when it’s time to stride forward into something new.
Contents:
So Goddamn Fucking Old
Thaw
Syrup
SO GODDAMN FUCKING OLD
I want to look so goddamn fucking old,
Just absolutely decrepit. Slack tits,
A mouth like a drawstring purse: fucking goals.
Please, Universe, shrivel me into bliss.
Time-gods have kept me inside a bell jar:
My face shows none of the years I have lived,
And so I tend to unsettle false hearts,
Those who seek to open me like a gift.
Skies! Tiger-stripe my face with wrinkles, please:
Show the apex predator I’ve become.
I do daily yoga, I move with ease:
I will bend into no dowager’s hump.
But my face: oh, sweet heavens, may it age.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
THAW I had been asleep inside myself for so many years: Joints protested, resisted movement after all those years. I hungered, thirsted. I made a short list of basic needs. “How do I take seriously the luxuries found here?” Embarrassing, to find how little call there was for my Experience: hyperfocused on overcoming fear. Almost nowhere is a battlefield, and those grim places That would have me descend to rage no longer draw me near. “What does a soldier do when it’s no longer time to fight? I can’t seem to find a single use for my weapons here.” I tried everything but stillness: all my avoidance failed, And so I was forced to remember what brought me to tears. The dream-bubble burst (made a real mess), and it was revealed How after all that happened, Lizzy Co can be safe here.
SYRUP Gather the magic: it pours down like rain, To buckets, held up high by grateful hands! Say nothing but loud praise for all this gain: You will not jinx yourself by making plans! Yes, count on life continuing to give As richly as it does on this fine day! You bring no curse upon your shoulders, lift Your eyes and let them see a kinder way! Surrounding, murmurs from many mothers: A legion of warm hands, guiding with love. Unmistakable, in how they’re weathered, And, how they fit around yours like a glove. Syrupy, magic flows from the high place, Enrobing all of us within its grace.
