There are no days when I forget
there is something wrong
My hand is frozen in the shape of
the cup I held, before it slipped—
I had it a moment, a wink and thunderclap
I stiffen, shake. Translations are canceled
Breathing
is something I practice like
memorizing holy writ, the rush and hiss of rain
which of course is inspired and
ludicrous, breathing
against neural scrap as if it were
beeswax to be warmed by hand
and transmuted with a wink and a curtsey
and it is of course.
The ascetics, the dirty-feet mystics
make everything look so easy
This breath
is a profession of monastic
years and endurance, the long stint
in a small cell, so many small cells. I confess
there are no days when I forget although
there are some I wink and wave and
practice tai chi on the mountain
in the pooling mist
once the storm passes. My body
the shape in the forest floor
after the tree is upended
debris scattered, roots
shocked and startling against the sky, ahh
I breathe, not so much to regrow
as to make a conscious altar for offerings—
a stack of acorn caps, a snail shell or curl of grapevine
in the greening woods, in the holy grove.
Watched by crows and friend to salamanders, Lisa Creech Bledsoe is a hiker, beekeeper, and writer living in the mountains of Western North Carolina. She is the author of two full-length books of poetry, Appalachian Ground (2019), and Wolf Laundry (2020). She has new poems out or forthcoming in American Writers Review, The Main Street Rag, The Public Poetry 2020 Anthology, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, and River Heron Review, among others.
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