Conjure

She thought maybe if she drank enough red Wore enough white She could conjure him up Like a dream or a spell or a bass line He'd come strolling through the den under the loft Whistling softly to his dog Perhaps if she really wanted hard enough Like a jazz tune he might Come waltzing in Turning circles around the space and the time and the sentiment where they had once let things go Yes, she was damn near certain she could manifest his presence Draw him in like a cool breath They would take up where they had left off If she let herself go just enough...

the sacred breath

The afternoon was crisp and cool like an apple waiting in the ice box. I slung a shawl around my pointed shoulders, a cloth dripping in weight and warmth, hoping it would keep me anchored to the earth. But as soon as I looked up I began to float- my heart rose to my fourth chakra, which tightened around its bindis. My open throat twitched and flexed. I pulled my shawl tighter but it was to no avail-  as my feet scraped across the wooden planks I arched my heels and drew in my toes, but slowly my heels left the ground and I began to sense a warm harsh air underneath my toes, where it had once met with wood and was now hovering above the planks.  My fingers quaking, they clutched first the corner of the counter and then as I was lifting drew my hands anxiously toward the next closest thing… garlic to keep me grounded, a chilli pepper to keep me present in it spindling and spiky heat. Baby tomatoes from my plant on the windowsill, plucking one by one like dreams gone by, even the orange heirloom sleeping curled like a secret at the bottom of the pot. Still I was lifting… bracing myself and baring my teeth I waited for my head to bump against the ceiling…

Then  I remembered my breath, that ancient silver key, and as I drew it through and across me I sank, heels pushing into the velvet earth, and the soles and my souls found groundedness.

I watched him leave

 like I knew he was coming back, and I was right. When he turned around and honked his horn I was busy hiding his sandals, washing the dishes he had left behind to hide all traces of him, elbows deep in soap suds and sadness.i braced myself and headed to the driveway, wrapping myself around my jutted elbows, dripping, knitted. He pretended like he had made a mistake and I pretended like I didn’t want to follow him. It would have been so easy to jump into his car- I had already packed my bags that afternoon hoping he would want me to join- but I saw the way his eyes turned down and I saw- how unlike him- how his cigarette had been smoked down to the quick, he still held on to it- ashes falling and he still held on to it, it looked hot and too close to his touch but he still held on to it, and it was time to let it go. So I jammed my toes into those old clogs we shared.

I held my chin high but this was only to keep the salted tears from being caught in the corners of my lips I tried to visualize the red stone on the floor underneath my yoga mat, tried to call its structure into form, borrow its consistency to keep me upright and sturdy as I made my way to the front door. But all I could find in the spaces between my mind was the last cigarette I saw him smoke, how it stirred listlessly in his hand much past its prime, how it begged to be released. I saw it dropping sweet and slow and painful all at once, imagined its impact upon reaching the rocks below and the sickening peace that would come at its demise.

harvest moon

In my dreaming state, I sensed it rising upon me. It roused me from my back, which I had bore down upon to sleep that night in hopes it would ease the ascending pains which had started like bitter secrets in my groin and mounted with growing certainty, clawing fingers, between my thighs. The discomfort settled at the base of the belly and curled itself like kundalini that wretched and healing serpant warrior, to the most tender and sacred space of my waking self. It quieted as I began to sleep, belly up to vanquish the anguish. And then, I was roused from my back.  The moon is a wondrous and secret thing. It had, unbeknownst to all of us involved so falsely conscious in our waking lives, moaned and creaked and grew. As it waxed above us it laughed like little bells at the top of our heads, for it could see our faces were set upon the ground. I, along with a thousand others, had missed the arrival of the harvest moon. But I did not miss its presence.

            As I was brought of out my weakened slumber, I finally lifted my face. I had been embraced in auburn. To my amazement my window was melting in gold. A russet warmth wrapped itself around me. Tiny bells aureated me. She was glowing, the natural satellite of our tiny earth. Listlessly she has in her flight arrived at my window and was radiating upon me.

            Alas as she had waxed, so had I. I had been filled with life’s ancient life giving secret, the fruits of pain and pleasure. I had met my fullest point at the end of the summer and so the Harvest Moon met me. We, together, had reached a turning point of vantage. Her soothing lunar light embraced me, and together we began to wane.

6 of swords

Like the waves I am

Dependent upon your pull.

Like the bone dry sand I will

Dry you out.

Smooth you down.

When the card of parting is pulled

There is no denying this notion of change

None can ignore the six of swords.

Plurality to unity.

None can ignore the six of swords.