#1469

the genius of Washington, ancient and wise
her heart a molten core
her skin the grains of mountains weathered by wind and rain and ice and time
her nails delicate pink seashells
her eyes the flashing of lighthouses beckoning lost ships
her hair a tangle of cedar boughs and blackberry vines and cold, clear creeks
her shoulders mountains capped in snow
her breasts beach dunes brushed by wind and waves
her feet granite, her legs layers of glacial till and volcanic ash
her hips the curved bays of rocky shores
her scent rainstorms and sea salt and wet animal musk
her lips red as summer’s prize apples
her smile daffodils breaking through winter dead fall
her voice the susurration of wavelets, her laughter bird calls
her presence the ripe harvest moon, heavy and gold in a velvet sky

[ I'm reading a modern retelling of A Christmas Carol called Ebenezer in which the ghost of Christmas past is represented by the genius of Utah. I loved the concept of personifying a state, so I began wondering what my home state of Washington would appear like to me. ]

#1467

You’re my raven-haired goddess who swallowed the sun,
sisterlover to my lunar body.
Let me warm myself on the hearth of your breast;
let me melt into your polished amber curves.
And when you doubt yourself,
let your radiance cast me in light and shadow;
I will show you the reflection of your beauty on my face.

#1465

I could not share you, not even a sliver. Perhaps that makes me selfish; perhaps that makes me wise. I try to imagine you laughing with someone the way you laugh with me, for once truly at peace, and jealousy tightens around my lungs. I try to imagine you cooking dinner for someone else and running into their arms when they walk through the door and my heart constricts. I can share you with friends and family. I can spare you for the hours each day we both have to work. But stand by while a portion of your affection, your body, your love is gifted to another? I would shatter. I would crumble. I may not believe myself worthy of your devotion, but I’m still selfish enough to hoard the candlelight in your eyes and the poetry on your lips. Those are mine. You are mine.

#1463

I can’t save the world. I can’t change society. I’m only one person, after all. I can improve the lives of maybe one hundred people on some miniscule level. Twenty-five significantly, in all the years I live. But one life, your life, I can change completely and forever. I can wake you from your nightmares. I can tell you you’re beautiful, even if you’ll never believe me, because you’ll still know I believe it. I can give you a cottage by the ocean or a farmhouse surrounded by fields surrounded by forest, and dogs to run in that forest, and vegetables to grow in those fields. I can show you a happiness you never thought possible for yourself and in that way I will change the entire world for you, and that will be a legacy worth leaving.

#1462

She says to write about myself but I don’t know how. If I try to look too deep all I see are the individual pieces I’ve gathered like a crow building its nest; scraps of sound, shards of sight, pieces of texture and taste and temptation. I lose my sense of self to the mosaic until I forget if I’m a girl or just sea salt and fog and candleflicker in dark windows. When I turn within myself and ask “who am I?” no voice answers. All I hear is the susurration of the ocean and the wind through pine boughs. When I turn within myself and ask “what am I?” all I feel is the heartbeat of mountains and the stars revolving overhead.