So I Comb Pebbles, Pine Needles, Scent of Sage


To be an artist is to believe in life.
—Henry Moore

I was reaching for the garden of lilacs
and fell. Empty hands. Empty
mouth. Inside me, more emptiness—
great holes where the woman
used to be. Though I grieved her,
that is how the sky came in—
whole vocabularies of clouds
creating new poems where before
it had been too solid for miracle.
Now I pray to be less woman, more window.
Less flesh, more frame. I want to become
more nothing, feel my name slip away
and reassemble my parts as chokecherry blossom,
blue butterfly a-frolic on the edge of the creek.
I am emptying, an aperture. I bow to opening.
This is not a story, it’s a process. It’s no
metaphor, it’s happening. I am less every day,
becoming invisible, reaching to touch
my hair and finding nothing left to braid.

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