like an animal

it's possible that all this heartbreak is a 
mistake, a simple    misunderstanding

do you hear me?

nothing broke here

except an idea

this is just the natural slaughter of a 

zebra in the field--
feeling, fiercely
roaming, openly

all her wild stripes in sight

this is facing, earnestly
the death that comes at night

this is surrender--

the piercing flight of a 

birds' fresh feather
in the blood-red mouth 
of animal fate

have no complaints

nothing loves without pain

a destiny between honey and pain

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net.
They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn't divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones.

~~~

We the mortals touch the metals,
the wind, the ocean shores, the stones,
knowing they will go on, inert or burning,
and I was discovering, naming all the these things:
it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

~~~

- Pablo Neruda, Still Another Day

tell me about love

I'm writing a letter to a friend, 

answering her question: 

Tell me about love.

I'm telling her what 

Osho says about love. About its 

momentary quality--

that you can't put a 

contract on it. 

That it's more like a 

particular combination of 

paints 

that meld into a new color--
then eventually,

harden. 

At which point, it's time for a 

new moment. 

A new squeeze

from the tube. 

Sometimes you have lots of 

new moments 
with the same 

person for a really 

long time. 

Sometimes, 

you don't. 

But love doesn't care, 

either way. 

Love's not concerned with the 

who's or the 

how long's. 

It only cares that you melt.

And then the phone rings from 

South Dakota. 

And my heart sighs. And I 

smile deep--

A chance to become 

nothing, fading into each other, 

forgetting for a moment 

that we were ever made 

separate at all. 

Fifteen minutes of a 

rhythm so in-sync you'd 

think our hearts kept 

exactly the same pace. 

So I Google the question, 

"Do all human hearts keep 

exactly the same pace?" 

And I only get 

half-hearted answers 

that speak nothing of 

magic, nothing of 

togetherness, nothing of 
the implication 

that even as 

separate beings, 

distinguished matter, there's a 

song in us humans that 

is an us. 

It's how we were made. 
With metronomes of together 

in the center of our bodies--

An anthem that cries,

we are one. 

And I think, maybe, 

I could list a thousand ways 
that we're constantly 

trying to remember 

that song. 

one day, i'll be this woman.

one day, i'll be the kind of woman who does not hunger for love
who drips it from her soul that collects it from the sky, and kisses the ground whenever she forgets that everything's connected


one day, i'll be the kind of woman who knows the beauty of her body when she moves
who feels its magic in her muscles and is not afraid to be so tenaciously alive


one day, i'll be the kind of woman who holds her power quietly
who comes home to the eternal wisdom of her impermanence and the reasonable wonder of pinecones


one day, i'll be the kind of woman who can receive power
without freezing in fear that it'll destroy her
without pretending that anything material survives
without wishing she could hold on to control


one day, i'll be the kind of woman who lets healing happen to her like a tongue slowly licking every inch of her tender skin
who melts into her fear and also into her freedom
who knows what it means to melt


one day, i'll be the kind of woman who doesn't talk about vulnerability, but hears its silent blessing, feels its loving terror, dreams of meeting its next messenger


one day, i'll be the kind of woman who glows from the center of her soul
who winks wild invitations that puts chills down your spine
without trying
without trying
without trying


one day, i'll be the kind of woman who doesn't fight her raw expression
who goes far enough to scare herself, and then still takes three steps further
until she realizes there are no edges
to the raucous of feminine force
and no one righteous enough to stop her
from knowing her own strength


one day, i'll be the kind of woman who stays
when thunder roars in the belly of disbelief
i'll be the kind of woman who sees the whole sky light up in purple fire, royal flames


one day, i'll be the kind of woman no one can name

leaving, leaving, everyone's leaving.

last summer, just around the time that everything spun out like whoa.

everyone leaves. no one stays. not you, nor i. nobody. even shakespeare one day, will be forgotten; a shadow of someone passed, memories before memories before memories ago. people won't even ask who was that guy who wrote those famous stories? people won't even ask.

but no matter. it makes no difference that few will ask about you long after you're gone. it makes no difference because you still want to pretend like they will. like your life was not merely a floaty cloud--a caricature of something picture-perfect, or banal enough to forget--but rather a storm that went down in the record books. a force that changed everything, left no house or body untouched. they will call you Storm Rachael. you will become a proper noun.

and still. the people in the houses will pass. the houses will pass, too, eventually. and no one will care that you tattered their rooftops. not eternally. not really. you'll go, too, and then even you won't care that you've been forgotten.

but now, you are here. people are coming and going. waking and dying. being born and falling fast asleep. you will fall in love with one of those people. she will leave. you will fall in love again. he will leave, too. you will fall in love evermore, and you will do the leaving sometimes. you will watch out of the corner of your eye as he watches you drive and drive until you're out of his sight, and he a small dot in the distance of your mind. you will wish that your mind made all the decisions about your feelings. you will ask your heart, why?

you will not have answers. you will fight like a stray cat in the arms of some huge loving force, you will fight and fidget your way out. you will escape back into the alley where silver soaked cement shows you what you're made of: a tired survival that wants to be free. you will wish it could be easier. but you will pay the price it costs to be yourself, independent and alone. there will be friends, even here, even here.

and one day, you may find yourself knowing that the towel that wants to wrap you in warmth and love, bring you in from the streets of solitude, does not intend to strangle your spirit or splinter your heart, but simply warm your soul as you prepare your final going.

so you will let it. you will let yourself be held, even though everything is ending. you will open your heart to a radiating hum. you will swallow the song into your body. it will nurse you like an ancient lullaby. you will sleep soundly with a small smile on your face. you will be sad and also happy. sad you went so long not letting yourself feel love. sad about time, that there is never enough. happy that there is this, now.

and when you wake, only to leave, he will nod as you say thank you. he will know that you really meant it. because he is leaving, too. we are leaving each other. we are leaving each other, only after we have found each other. and to find anything at all always comes with the real-life risk of losing. we will feel the loss, but also the real-life blessing.

and i'm not sure what happens next.