Little Things
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Darkness at the center
of the lotus, seeds planning
for the future, the ant’s path
straight from and back
to the nest, the movements
of the beaver’s mind,
the star-nosed mole’s nose
with twenty two rays, the squirrel
and it’s little projects for autumn,
the turkey buzzards opening
their wings to take in the morning sun.

Today I Have the Gumption
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

I’ve never stood naked beneath the moon,
or touched a molting bison, however,
my poetry, like all hearts, beats memento mori
with every line. I have experienced
suddenly moments, and a witch once scratched
me with her nail.

That last one may or may not be true,
I’m having trouble remembering, but there is
a scar on my left arm and I don’t know how
it got there, and it itches sometimes, and I’m
pretty sure it’s from a witch who sits on a chair
in my dreams, but again, my memories
are all flux and flow.

I like the rumps of deer—their white tails
flickering as the leap away from the side of the road,
I like my raven colored hair streaked with the color
of old bones. And sometimes, when I sleep, in the stilling
and folding in, I feel the moon stuck in my body,
and she’s naked, as always, and sometimes
she circles widdershins through my ribs just for fun.

Morning doesn’t rush, cows spread dew with every step,
and belladonna is one of my favorite words, so
I keep some in a tincture on my windowsill.

A bee that bumps into a bell just hard enough
to make it ring—that’s me in a nutshell–
a thirsty, broken, wine cask, a mingling among
snails and moss, a little crack in a fence, although,
sometimes, when the night is at its most silent,
I feel like I am a goddess of ghosts.

Today I have the gumption to dance without music,
and my eyes are open like the owl’s at sun set.
I am going to lift my head, that can barely support
these horns, and shape shift into my own life,
because, you see, a wolf is coming towards me
with a bandaged paw, and I know what I must do.

This Morning I Did Zazen on the Toilet
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

This morning I did zazen on the toilet.
As I shaved I thought: “I’d love to be a whore.”
Instead, I’ve been startled by a falling leaf,
and the lines on my palms extend out beyond my hands
making it difficult to whore.

Someone is riding an ox backwards into the temple,
a hermit sits on my roof, grinning, holding a sign
that says: “Too many vacancies.”

On my way to the station there’s a butterfly serving tea at a cafe,
there’s a cap-sized boat floating in the middle of the lake,
everyone in the park is playing fetch with each other.

I crunch a rice cake on the train. Looking out the window
I see a child turn into a tree, a nun leaps and turns into
a bat and flies into the loft of a barn, the apple pickers
turn into bears, a coyote picks up a stick and pretends it’s a flute.

Later that night, a little girl pulls down the moon
with her teeth, a black octopus roils across the hills,
there’s a fish swimming in the hair of the lady sitting in front of me.

Just before sleep, I turn the band of my watch one notch
tighter, I try to cling to the soft breathing of the other passengers,
but can’t. A man walks down the aisle towards me with the head of a wolf.

Tomorrow I’m going to praise ferocity, and when I get off
this train, I’m going to run with the berserkers, and join the frenzy
of it all, and howl backwards into my life.

Elements
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

This is the world of the wind.
Everything touching everything,
believing is wishful, shimmer
out and easy into the air,
dress everyday as if going
to a dance in flowing, loose clothes,
steps light and ready, feather dust
the living room like the gentlest
of tornadoes, arms clouds, flex the knees,
ease into turns, confetti tossed in the parade.
This is the world of the wind.

This is the world of fire.
Consuming all being consumed by all,
a living furnace, dancing hearth,
embers wiggling, rising, drunken fireflies
flying upwards, stars burning ancient
light, sinuous and leaping, scandalize
life with a smile. This is the world of fire.

This is the world of water.
Easily disturbed and the better for it,
adjusts easily to curves and forms
from oceans to tears, from tears to sweat,
rain and snow dance down and down,
wander around a lake, hands in pockets,
head slightly down, ripples draw near
encouraging steps, little drips
make great changes, freeze, then thaw
into mist disappearing, as estuaries wash roots
drawing honesty and lies up and through
the body. This is the world of water.

This is the world of the ground.
Shared and there when learning to crawl,
there for when jumping up and down
is called for, there for first walking the steps
of a new dance, there for when limbs unfold
into graceful, memorized movements,
the most consistent thing known to all the ground
there to follow the lead of the journey,
there for the steps of pall bearers,
there for the lowering into graves.
This is the world of the ground.

The Hope I Carried With Me to Bed
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Late evening sky—the color of Kali.
Mind swirling with anti-mantras.
I gave the morning a five-star review–
even added a couple comments of praise.

And then the day happened.

So many missing pieces, and not just
the centermost. A whole row of edges—gone.

But I am familiar with this emptiness,
and once again I walked the pilgrim’s walk
hoping to find rest by a stream of faith.

I felt swindled.

Heart pitted against mind, body against
spirit, time against soul, good against
bad, me against me.

Called in reinforcements of intuition
and managed to see a caterpillar
feeding on hibiscus leaves,
and the cafe had well-salted soup,
washed the lettuce and there weren’t
any snails, although I like snails
and bring them outside whenever
I find one.

What is the solution to this inevitable
nihilism that follows me even in secret?

All I know is by nightfall Kali unfolded
her red tongue and revealed the moon,
and she was hungry. And that’s the hope
I carried with me to bed that night, and I fell asleep
to the sound of her terrible steps moving
across the land—her ankle bracelets
jangling, like a thousand cracked bells, as she searched
for something to crush.

Things That May or May Not Be True
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Trees prefer analogue time over digital.

Only single-minded devotion illumines the soul.

When oars slice the water every moment is an arrival.

There aren’t many people who calmly accept storms.

The curled rope, on the ground by the barn, that’s mistaken for a curled snake,
might have profound implications as to the nature of things.

You cannot pick up the red of the rose without picking up the rose.

Reasoning with yourself is like a springboard for jumping across ditches
and not quite making it.

Two ideas running parallel forever and never touching is just about
as sad as a kite stuck in a tree.

If we reckon anything as unimportant we will turn into kites flapping in trees.

Most people don’t like it when someone whispers in their ear.

Thoughts cannot defile the sun.

Everyone has memories hung on pegs in their minds that will never see the light of day,
and that is all to the good.

To Save the World
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Loons on the unbroken lake inhale the early
morning mist through slits carved in their sharp, black bills,
turning it into fluttering otherworldly cries,

the deep pink little flowers near the shore welcome
the occasional teasing yellow swallowtail, and
thunder grumbles something unintelligible as

a screen door slams from somewhere across the lake
and children yell and run around looking for those
inner tubes that go on their arms so they can jump

into the lake before it rains. I once asked a kindergartner
what they wanted to be when they grow up
and they said smiling: “A firetruck!”

And anyway, a dragonfly has landed at the end
of the dock after long moments of tracing circles
in the air, and the reflection of the treeline

on the dark water is a stroke of genius, but I don’t
want to sing unending hymns of praise, and I don’t
think anything wants me to either, but dang it–

the morning is altogether dreamlike and the dragonfly
has disappeared and so have the loons, and all
that’s left are the children shrieking and splashing

and floating through the slow passing of time, and somewhere,
way across and through the trees, I hear a firetruck
driving fast and wailing, with a purpose to save the world.

Sometimes Decisions Don’t Need to be Made
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Sometimes, when I see lightning, I wish
I could be that decisive. As it is, everything is either
numerator or denominator, resulting in repeating

decimals. Although, one time I got to strike an anvil
with a hammer, and someone once said I was fox-
level trickster. But what I’d really like to do is

remove a seed from its shell, put it in my mouth,
and grow into a tree. I have occasionally spoken
a turning word, and played tag with children, and I am

glad for that. Thing is though—there is no such thing
as limitless life, or shooting for the everlasting, and
playing twenty-questions gets boring.

So why should I worry my beliefs are too shallow?
Someone once said we all have seven destinies,
and I’ve used up five already, and so, I think it’s time

to remember the next time lightning strikes,
I will say to the absolute, positively world: “Thank you,”
because sometimes decisions don’t need to be made.

Knock On All the Doors
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Give me a number between one and ten.
Closest gets a ride on a tiger. Doors don’t
fail to open. Some just don’t want to open.

Others don’t trust your judgment,
but railings are good on high, winding mountain
roads, and while some would say all roads

lead to perdition, I think all roads lead
to gardens we’ve yet to design,
and along the way we go from immaturity

to maturity, and back again, and, anyway,
children lead Buddha by the nose, and he laughs
with delight. So, go on—pick a number,

ride the tiger, knock on all the doors,
assert your existence, release the rebel
in you. Your breath abides everywhere,

and anyway, when the past, present,
future, and you walk into a bar,
the bartender’s gonna ask: “What’ll it be?”

And they will look at one another and answer:
“Yes!” Leaving you to order fried pickles,
and to begin making sketches of gardens.