When You Return
By
Radiance Angelina Petro
The moon conducts the orchestra of the waves.
Scales of fish contain petals of the sun.
Moths slip the gravity of their longing, and their wings catch fire.
Wind lifts and spins leaves in the corners of abandoned schools.
The child finger-paints a perfect circle.
Deer move together, leaving no hoof prints in the grass.
All creation wheels around the sun of its desire.
When you return to your Beloved, he will come to you, dancing.
Be the Wolf
By
Radiance Angelina Petro
It’s OK to stutter
when trying to speak
the poem’s desire.
“Be the wolf,” it might say
shaking your shadow
into biting back the words—
swallowing them, denying
your hunger, until you
can no longer bare it,
and drool begins dripping
from the edges of your mouth,
and you find yourself
baring your teeth, opening
your throat, and from deep in your guts,
tear apart the night—howling
into the darkness, preying
on anything that gets in the way
of your empty belly.
Unable to Turn Back
By
Radiance Angelina Petro
Deep in the drapery of the lily,
a dead bee lies curled in a pool of nectar.
Why did it die in such a sweet sacristy
enshrined in its last memory of golden,
pollen-dusted walls?
Perhaps if we ambled down
the tunneled curtains of our longing,
searching for a numinous center,
we wouldn’t notice either
that our every step was beginning
to stumble—dazzled and drunk,
our pockets becoming heavy
with treasures, the amphitheater
narrowing, as we slip away
from ourselves, drowning in sweetness,
unable to turn back.
Hints
By
Radiance Angelina Petro
They’re usually in the last place
you look. This goes for both
car keys and words.
Every barn, whether living or dead, holds secrets.
Garlic is good in rubs, sauces, and stews,
but most especially on buttered bread.
Tissues with aloe lotion on them
smear your glasses.
If you ever become lost again,
try to remember the whole world
is your home. Any road, that isn’t a dead end, like a belief,
can take you where you need to go. Every step
taken in good faith is what the journey wants.
Shadows inside slant the light.
When opening a door, pretend it leads to another
world.
If you wonder where your life has gone,
try not to look behind. Look forward,
towards the horizon, or, at very least,
towards the next stop, the next tree you see,
the next person you meet with your eyes,
the next song you hear, the next time
you praise.
Imbolc means “in the belly.” For me, this images the belly of the earth. The Great Goddess. It images seeds as they gradually quicken to the light–inspired by light within themselves. It images sleeping animals, dreaming of….what? Dreaming of hunger? The hunt? The sky and the rivers?
Imbolc images walnut-shaped mantis egg-sacks grafted to a thin, vulnerable twig of a bush. An egg sack waiting to hatch–spilling out a scrambling brood of rice-sized beings devoted to hiding, sudden graspings, mysterious revelations, and a kind of appetite that is endless as the summer.
It images fire in the belly. What is burning within you that needs to see the light of day? What passions are within you aching to be revealed to yourself and/or the world? What dreams are waiting for you to wake from your necessary winter sleep–the sleep of holy darkness–and emerge from their cold graves?
What awakenings of vision are opening like seed husks into unfurling, expansion, and abundant breath? What seeds are dreaming within you? What needs to be broken open?
What darkness needs traveling through, nourishing you as you go? What needs to die in order for fruit, blossom, roots, branches, fragrance, and food for all spirits–near and far, ancestral, and future–to be offered freely from slowly opening palms?
What needs to end? What needs to begin?
Who needs to become a forest, a garden, a bear?
Imbolc–In the belly.
What are you ingesting and digesting today–both bodily and spiritually that longs to be transformed into wonder, creativity, and newness–for yourself and the world?
Clasping Branches
By
Radiance Angelina Petro
This third-floor apartment, surrounded by trees, is lonely and quiet. An occasional car passes down on the road, leading itself with its own light. The laughter of the couple below travels faintly through the right angles of the vents into my kitchen. Moonlight slants across the bromeliad in the living room. My guitar is shut in its duct-taped case. The Tibetan bowls wait to ring—patient as caves awaiting something to echo. There must be so many birds sleeping in the branches of the dark trees, blending so well with the night so as to become invisible. Do they dream? Dream of sky? Dream of filling empty bellies? They clasp the branches so tightly their tendons lock, preventing them from falling. Every morning they sing themselves into existence. They create the day with song. I wonder if they amaze themselves with what bursts forth from their bodies. What would it be like to sing oneself awake from darkness?
