• Dionne Blaha

The blood of birds

flies through you,

how can you not know?

You’re not sleepy,

you are no more dead

than a grain of rice,

questions in clouds,

beetles for color,

ants your relatives,

burning through mountains.

Rouse yourself,

saintly one,

for there is much to do

and your sisters can’t do it for you.

  • Dionne Blaha

It’s inevitable—

one day pestilence

will fly away from you

like grasshoppers,

the smell of sewers

depart from you,

all the stuff that causes wars.

Your house will be moved

like an earthquake moves a tree

a foot south.

Once you start walking again,

slow as a grasshopper crawls,

your skin will transluce

your insides out.

Your pitcher might be filled

but you must

pour the water,

and whether you pour it

with sand in your eyes

or ice in your armpits

or carrots sprouting

from every fold of you—

it’s you who interprets

the writing

on the packets of seeds.

Let me hold your hand

as we look upon the tree,

which, you see,

is two feet south today.

You’ve finished work.

Heading out the door,

you turn back to

pick up your day’s prayer.

Touching the mantra

to the end of your tongue

is not calling god to be with you.

It is not meant to write you

into Version 102 of you.

Let the words

be their own selves,

stick children or

sticky children or

dandelions or

dandy children.

If you want to

call god to you,

by all means.

The trick is this:

Leave yourself behind

to find yourself.

Dissolve the tea of you

into the cup of you

and the spoon of you

will taste the tongue of you.

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© 2017 by Dionne Blaha

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