Spellbound

someone put a spell on it
that’s all i know
and unzipped the seat
of the morning like
faded blue denim
on that day built
like an iceberg, at the same
hour i went to see her—
the old woman who lived
in the house that tilted
like a can at the foot of
my little town, a house of
skulls and sand, the keeper
of the great notebook
made of cotton
and bone

it was a sky of red parades and
dancing machines and great
spigots of moonshine above
that sleepy house of skulls
the sun bloomed like a yolk
in her garden full of lettuce and
dandelions and massive
dancing bees

she met me with a kiss and a
great pour of gin, i admired
her sorcery, the way she
cracked the stars and
tamed cobras with her fists,
pay attention, she says, tossing
that whirlwind of gray hair over
her shoulder like flint,
everybody wants to know why i
keep this notebook, but not all
paths are paved for the same
kinds of revelation *cracks binding
and flips to the first blank page*

language isn’t the seat of knowledge
it’s a tool made for creating with and
the greatest wisdom—that which comes
from the depths of your soul—can only be felt
every act of creation is
also an act of translation

whatever you do, don’t live by the letters
don’t fall into the trap of shrinking your
world to fit your language
because that’s seeing in reverse
everything that’s
divine and holy will
leave you speechless
letters are made for rearranging, that’s all
you gotta think from the seat of your
experience, she says—from the eyes—
revelations don’t come packaged, and
the process of getting to know the
godlike within you is sloppy and
dirty, and it’ll take you straight down
to hell and back, and
if you do it right, you’ll
probably never finish, you know…
*voice trails off and slurps gin
through a toothless smile*

this notebook is made
for rearranging, she says,
for constructing my own reality
out of flesh and bone, and for
embracing the great
wisdom born out of silence

just then, the sky turned to lavender
and out the window of that
tin can house, the ground was
flooded with golden beetles, far
as the eye could see, the earth went
swimming in the desert and we
jumped in after it
suddenly the woman spoke to me as
no one ever had before,
straight from the backs of the eyes

we each exist
in a silence beyond silence
the morning cannot unspeak us
it is only by the sounds of our names
that we may remember we are alive
there is no silence without grieving