Such a big elastic stretched out word like I can carry you, can I carry myself, how are my lumbars holding up? Lumbago vertigo Lambada the forbidden dance of asking for help. Help spelled out among broken bottles, a glass rainbow of shards as seen from the sky, from this eagle’s eye view or Goddess eye view which is infinitely sharp and able to plunge to great depths with no hesitation, no hesitation. And Judith said I could give it a rest, could stop digging for awhile. Rest.
Help, sky, signals, the hunter knows, the hunter sees, and what I know is the sonar traveling between my many-colored selves as captured with small slivers of light on my journals’ pages, over the years, my lineage of selves.
Judith says “talk to your little girl, talk to that little poet.” She refers to her as “she” and I see my village, and remember my writing teacher saying that her preferred gender pronoun is “village.”
Village. We. They. When does we become they or wheat become whey and really isn’t everything and everyone just interchangeable anyway? The moment I begin to heal the world is the moment I can look inside myself and find the murderer who lives there, alongside the judge, the teacher, the jester, the warrior, the mother, the father, the child, the saint.