By Cynthia Cruz
The child is not dead.
She is sleeping.
Gone from this world
Which is broken.
The angel of Michael
Outside the garden
His circle of fire
Maddening around the tree.
He put the word
Back into her:
A heavy kind of music.
Then she was free.
As we all are.
All night I stood in the icy wind,
Praying for the storm to destroy me.
But the wind blew through me
Like I was a hologram.
If you say I am a mystic,
Then fine: I’m a mystic.
The trees are not trees, anyway.
Source: Poetry (October 2015)
Poet Bio
More Poems about Living
if time is queer/and memory is trans/and my hands hurt in the cold/then
there are ways to hold pain like night follows day
not knowing how tomorrow went down.
it hurts like never when the always is now,
the now that time won't allow.
there is no manner of tomorrow, nor shape of today
only like always having...
Here’s an Ocean Tale
My brother still bites his nails to the quick,
but lately he’s been allowing them to grow.
So much hurt is forgotten with the horizon
as backdrop. It comes down to simple math.
The beach belongs to none of us, regardless
of color, or money....
More Poems about Religion
Being
Wake up, greet the sun, and pray.
Burn cedar, sweet grass, sage—
sacred herbs to honor the lives we’ve been given,
for we have been gifted these ways since the beginning of time.
Remember, when you step into the arena of your life,
think about...
For the Feral Splendor That Remains
sometimes I strain
...