Stories

In my mirror,

house of sacred myths,

lives a warrior

whose wounds are mouths

reciting stories...

           rare mornings of peace

           when the breeze made marionettes

           of wind chimes

           as oaks stood guard,

           and evenings 

           when a shadow of fear

           or grief escaped

           from her nightmare

           and wrestled her

           until dawn chased it away.

Her final story

the wind will erase.

I will write

in black dust

from charred bone

how she climbed

the holy mountain alone,

its halo of mist

hiding her familiar home

in the Valley of Broken Wings.

© Jean Sampson, 2015

Misty mountains ~ Cochamo, Chile
Photo by McKay Savage
from Wikimedia Commons

Resurrection

Mom says she knows the shape of my skull.

She didn’t notice the dent in its back 

When I was a baby; it must be new. 

She memorized me,

Me, come from her.

Her threads bursting

At the coming of me,

Making room. 

She used to stare at the freckle on the back of my arm 

When she didn’t want to go. 

Tethered by love to my irregularity,

She knows how my heartbeat sings. 

The Father memorized His Son

In the beginning.

In the beginning was the Word, 

And the Word came and lived on soil

And died on a hill called The Skull and lives. 

I want His coming to burst from me,

My heart tethered to His Came and His Coming,

Let it ring from the bursting of me, 

Me closer to His heartbeat, 

Memorizer of His ineffability,

Herald of His

Child of His

© Emily Brown, 2015

Altarpiece by Thomas Gatzemeier
Onolzheim, 2002
from Wikimedia Commons