you exhaust me
with your perpetual need
you who is I, I who is me
this hungering for solace
rubbed like frankincense
on pulse points
used to be said, a woman’s evocation
was found in the thread of her blood
tasting her, found, a salt and an admonishment
for knowing mystery is not permitted
you exhaust me
with your perpetual need
you who is I, I who is me
attempting free fall, finding balance in
tender pretend, the chime and rounding of days
a music without orchestra, still she sings
heal me from the want
expunge that holy desire for more
give me a reflecting glass
that I might climb through
touch my limbs as they break into fire sticks
combusting in torrent, the woman, the girl
the crone
she sits with sun on her face
careless of time
she has put aside her duty
listening instead
to the song of a bird
whose feathers remind her
of blue black hours
TheFeatheredSleep 