La Tarantula

In my dreams, resistance
breaks up
into miserable robberies
and unforeseen killings,
dead on
I cradle hilarious laughter
in soft flabby arms
like a mother holding her infant.
My life depends on this

When a big black spider
perhaps a tarantula
crawls under my blanket
I slash its hairy legs
with a machete
too many times
until my love pulls me towards him
and quiets my fear.
My life depends on this

The spider never knew resistance
It never knew what bad dreams
can make a woman do.

The next morning
I awaken with a dry poisonous throat
The all-legs-shriveled up spider,
La Tarantula,
lies on my pillow,
like a worn-out mandolin,
a pear shape, with a
severely damaged fretted neck.

La Tarantula had smoothed pine beams
tree sap, tiny amber nuggets
frozen in time.
in search of her mate.
My warm body obliterated her
in the middle of the night.

I rest with La Tarantula
my eyes wide open, vigilant,
her filaments, drying like angel dust,
detach deliberately from my sins
until there is no trace, no shadow
My life depends on this.

Flying Stones

Flying Stones, oil painting

Flying Stones, oil painting

Propelled into sky
tumbling at lightening speed
towards my body
lying in tall green grass
maroon dirt rivulets
my face unrecognizably
fierce, against flying rocks,
stone sculptures
carved of antiquity, undone
I hide in a crevice
of a deep gulley.

For days I lie there
waiting, wanting, wavering
between two worlds
lost and untethered
until I reach out, hands first
then my arms, one by one
the stones fly over me
they never even touch me
they do not break me into pieces
even though they are out of line
and not in their common place
they thunder along without me
I am still here, alone
without brothers, without sisters
no mother, no father
in a foreign land.

2014-08-01 00.46.04

Sometimes Poetry is Asleep

That is when I go a slight bit insane
Even though I remember
Somewhere deep inside
Where images fly from left to right,
Down and under, in cunning  twists
All winging, as if they are foreign birds
Taking on extreme heights.
I know I cannot fly like that
But at the same time, I can fly
Somewhere inside, where
For the moment poetry is asleep.
It is like frothy milk oozing in a full udder
Of a mama cow,
Her bright pink skin bulbous
Waiting to be suckled again|
Waiting for that moment of release.
My question is: When can I bless the sky?
The mountains, trees, turkeys,
And the chickens, who in turn
Taught the turkeys how to peck
For food, for soul, for wellbeing.
Sometimes poetry is fast asleep.
Sometimes poetry is already there.