It Tasted Like My Own Medicine

War in a bottle,
went down my throat last night
as I snacked on stars and waited for Dawn.

She approached me with fine colour
we were fine for a minute or two
and I’m sure all I saw was beauty
but I closed my eyes after awhile,
afraid I’d seen too much.

The drops stung when they hit my lungs
and I knew it was a good thing
I swallowed
my denial, avoidance and dishonesty
and when I swallowed
there was one thing more then just Dawn and I.

 

 

 

There was Peace.

 

 

 

 

Finally this Fire

I built a fire of gusto
shaved my legs
and told myself I’d wait.

I climbed a tulip
named my breath Beauty,
and claimed I knew my fate.

By the start of the hour,
I’d shown eager my power
and built my garden of roses.

I dug deep into dirt,
placed Beauty inside
and waited for morning to come.

I stood on branches of wind
grew warmth with the heat,
and saw I had
forever won.

For when morning came
I had fate by the hand,
skin as smooth as your land,
and breath that breathed

finally,
a fire of love.

What Happened with my Leap

So my leap last night, shall be explained as such:

A skittling speeded up motion of a caterpiller on a log. Crimpling around into a cocoon he makes. Brittle edges-but fast remember. It’s all fast, jittery, unanticipated motion.
Then skip to the next part. Where the butterfly begins cracking open the home. Fast, jittery, everywhere motion. A wing,an antenna. A leg. Crackling, big.
And then the whole creature is out, putting legs together and then and then, a slow now, a slow motion burst of angelic, unstable lift. Off the log. A flap of the wings, one, two, up now.

And then:
HAAACHA GRUAH CHOMP.

There’s a lizard. And it crushes the first few breaths of that butterfly. Dissolves any notion of living. Any more ideas of flapping and flying and eating and being pretty.
Done.
Dead.

 

That was my attempt at a leap.
It sucked, it did.

But you know,
that lizard gets a sense of movement beyond him. And he drops himself into a change of colour. Blending and stopping all killing. Instinct to staying alive in the midst of danger.

The butterfly is weak, one leg torn off. A wing crumpled, an antenna bent.

It remembers.
It has wings still. It can fly. It can fly, it can fly.

So push off from almost her death bed, she rises, with a new burst of self.
I will live, I will live, I will leap again she says.

 

I will leap again.