Material World

The warp tension of my frame
resists an initiative-look under
this ugly rug. Everything I stand upon

must be undone, to allow
the weft of my healing
drawing through. As I weave

an angst chant rises up,
unwound passion
and all the old lies

kept so tightly restrained
—the energy drain exhausting–
stick like burrs

to the sound-threads
rising in my consciousness.
My job here is to stay open

accepting what is
like I’ve never done before.
Tossed in the riptide

where my ancestors
have lost their footing
fighting for last breath.

And years ago,
I vowed to end this senseless
spinning on a ledge

with all the addicts below
hopeless and helpless
stretched on the frantic

loom of my life. Our interwoven
pain snakes through
my healing, a living weave.

Only when I insist on giving
presence and sound,
singing the grief into being,

do the yarns emerge
daring to dance
into the open air

popping like insubstantial
bubbles despite the weighty
years they have held me under.

The strangulating strands
—locked in my cave of partisan
neuroses, no opening,

the rock lodged firmly
though I batter it daily
shatter myself in vain—

finally release hope
germinating in my dark
heart too fragile to name.

Inspired by Ugly, Initiative, Partisan and Snake.