No Body Else but Yours
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Listen, trees
breathe you
breath drawn
from roots,
drawn from darkness,
that, in turn,
breathe the earth
cradled in arms
that spiral stars
with revolutions
of joy.
The next time
you feel wind
on your face,
know you are dear
to the heart
of the world;
how you are
touched
with eternity
breathed
from lungs
of love and sighs,
that are, in turn,
born from a longing
for nothing more
than a glance
that is no body
else’s but yours.
Light Source Unknown
by
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Moving through
the world,
a living shadow,
without
a body,
light source
unknown.
Go with the Spiraling
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Morning swirls away
the dreams that visit
our sleep, as a Buddhist monk
brushes away a mandala
that took forever to create.
And just as the monk
collects the grains of sand
into a silken covered bowl
and pours them into a river,
so too our dreams are gathered
into a bowl—but this time—
made of birdsong, and scattered
into the day.
It is the same with butterflies
waking up from wherever it is
butterflies sleep—a puff
of tiny scales releases into the air
from the dream of their wings
as they quaver towards fields of light.
It isn’t enough to wish.
Go with the spiraling, brilliant
sands of the dissolving mandala,
follow the butterflies
into clouds of flowers,
merge with this moment
as the future merges with you.
Maybe, Just Maybe
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
One line stumbles over into another,
and then that line into another, until maybe,
just maybe, a road appears,
or a river, and you go somewhere
with someone you do not know,
pointing out land marks, and local fauna,
stopping now and then, to look up
at the hawk gliding without effort,
silent as a thought.
Up ahead gradually arrives,
and you notice your shadows
have moved from in front of you
to behind you, until, maybe,
just maybe, the road rises,
and the beginning begins.
Bees Lead the Way
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
It’s ok to shelter your heart.
Elegant safety, full of grace, full of heaven,
necessary shadows cradle the light,
bells ring softly, sound merging with forgiveness,
blending with the readying to let go,
bees lead the way to sweet sacristies,
wings thrumming with light,
lifting the sun from holy darkness.
Mondegreen
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
The wind said something
that mixed with the hum
of bees and distant lawn mowers.
What it said may have sifted through.
It may have touched my ever-listening.
Standing on the road, searching
the sky, I watch the way
trees sway and wave,
and a pause descends, like
a wish, except palpable, like
a sigh.
The message means
to find my spirit—wind woven
with wind. It seeks me, like
the fragrance of freesia seeking
the bee.
There is work to be done. I know
that much. What it is
is a ribbon drifting, lifting away.
So many missteps have befallen
the road. So many turns missed.
So many dead ends, which, in all
actuality, do not exist. Nevertheless,
I strive to listen, to get it right. To breathe
what the wind said, hoping
the message will nuzzle its way
through my body, caressing
desire, and once again guide my steps
to many unexpected
blessings.
Surrendering to Hunger,
A Sort of Ode to Red Bell Peppers
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Green crowned, red as blood,
trying hard to be symmetrical
and beautifully failing,
the bell pepper sits on the cutting board
of the cook’s devotion.
Gut to seed. The knife’s whisper
sings hollow through chambers
that fit so perfectly
in the palm of the hand.
From within, the sweet smell
rises, first to the nose, and then
to the eyes, and then
to the hands.
When the halves open,
a little theater of red drapery
reveals itself, like a ghost
lifting its arms, offering treasures
strung from gauzy curtains, like
clusters of little, waxing gibbous moons.
Both the cook, and the pepper,
surrender to hunger—
one to be lifted up and devoured,
the other to bow their head and eat.
The flavors of tin-laced blood and earth,
hum in the mouth a glistening
forgiveness, of which, there is nothing
to forgive, but still,
it feels that way, as body becomes
body, as life becomes life,
sliced into little moments
of edible wonder.
Autopoiesis
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
They come of themselves.
Into, and unto, and out of
Themselves. They are
Hidden scryers peering into
My soul’s dark water.
My pen their whisper vessel,
Scream vessel, sobbing, joy,
River vessel. My mind
The bramble-snaggled thicket
They choose to flower through.
I do not know why I am
Honored such as this. How it is
They direct themselves
Through the broken guttering.
What I do know is that the brokenness
Is the lock, their autopoiesis
The key, their touching
The gateway that opens
Into paradise.
Occulted
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
The chimeric afternoon
Lifts its head, as I venture out
For the first time in three days.
I mask my face against the belladonna air,
Each step feeling modestly feral,
Each sifted breath more defiant than the last.
It occurs to me, as the swift, April wind
Spindles through my hair:
There is nothing I wouldn’t give
To lie with you in the cherry-blossom-petaled grass,
Hands clasped, holding on
Through an uncertain, occulted future.
What I wouldn’t give
To Netflix with you in bed,
Blankets warm, lights off. If only you were here.
If only you existed.
What I wouldn’t give to be vivified by a kiss.
As it is, each step slows in the miasmic
Walk back to what I call home.
I climb the steps, turning to look for you
One last time. I open the door. I close the door.
I walk into my spell-bound apartment
And sit on the couch.
I do not look out the window,
Passed the magnolia tree,
To the sidewalk below,
To see if you spirited home with me. Instead,
I remove my mask, I close my eyes,
And merge back into the sonorous silence.
Easter Silence
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
I wonder if when
Jesus sat up in the tomb
On the third day, he was
Pulled suddenly alive
By a catching breath—
A breath surprising even
Unto himself?
Did he sit for little
Eternities listening to
Silence—or had
Silence scattered at the sound
Of the waiting angels
Opening their wings?
Whatever happened
To the sand his feet touched
As he stood? Is the dust
Still in the mouth
Of the cave?
Did the little rocks and pebbles
That trailed behind the hem
Of his robe dragging over
The ground, one day become
Mountains?
For all I know, the tomb
Was always empty—ever not
Gestating a dead man.
Perhaps neither it nor he ever
Existed—which seems most likely given
Today. This Easter silence
Finds us isolating in different parts
Of one, great cave—
Behind make-shift masks
Afraid to ever breathe
Again.