Anima
From roots thrust deep
as far as Ethiopia
she comes,
floating on her own breath.
She dances veiled in night,
retelling stories while we sleep.
Like pleated scarves
they unfold their gauzy tales
as we lie caught
between fear and death:
The lover sails away on lemon rinds,
pythons lie in wait beneath the stairs,
from crumbling roofs we fall to consciousness
with silent cries upon our lips.
Some say she hides the truth
under black light;
others, that she opens windows in the sky
and showers secrets from falling stars.
Banned from sacred houses,
she slips between stained glass
when the moon rises orange
and full of holy lies.
Most men fear her
except the few who hunger
for her breasts.
In desert caves
she suckles these
on fire and wind
and fills their mouths
with ancient songs.
Here they learn to paint
the empty chambers of the heart,
the canvas stretched tight
between the eye and the soul.
She alone endures the night,
disarming soldiers in the dark,
haunting all of us
from other wars
where phantoms breathe
from flesh so like our own.
(reprinted with thanks from Anima Journal)
