Ball Lightning

There is nothing in you that is not blue violet thunder,
a love like rains clefting open the Earth, your dominion
is the lightning strike and petrichor summers, sweet holy
decadence of storms fructifying and revitalizing our bodies.
We eat your blood because your blood is rain. We devour your
flesh breathing because your body is thick, misty air and not
to inhale is to choke on hurricanes. There is no question of
whether or not to breathe you in, and with a love like yours,
why, I stand cradling ball lightning, dancing with St. Elmo’s
fire, and your Holy Ghost dances like a blazing purple white
star, there is nothing beyond necessity in my devotion towards
your blood, your bones, your manna and succor of your veins.
And I am dancing in the tornado, flying through thunderheads.
I meet you where stars kiss the ocean on a stormy night, oh
Lord, lay me down on your crackling bed, make love to me like
the skies weep onto my mother mud, appear to me manifesting
pure being, the heady death of all my fears, a ship set sail
on gales, and I will die, but it will be beautiful, and I will
ascend to vast summits of ice crystal castles, in union with
you, oh my God, oh my Lamb, oh my thunder strike and lightning
whip, the heavens are but a metaphor for airy wanderlust, and
love makes the storm grow bold and prance for the meadows,
the valleys of my heart open up for your rain and holy pain,
oh Christ, do not forget me in your Passion, for I weep rivers
of gold at your feet, and my madness in the desert, hair grown
long to cover my nakedness, is but the raging sylphs themselves.
I will bottle your blood and wine then pour them over the oceans.
I will stand on cliff’s peak and proclaim your love of All.
Long-suffering Jesus, killing himself to make whole the world,
I would but a taste of your Sacrament, like rain, like grain.
I spread my legs wide to receive the Cross, I hug my breasts
and let rivers of milk flow to my cleft, a Sacred Whore who
nourishes the moon at her side, twin sun and lunar bodies,
which are just like your eyes, and Mother Nature is calling,
your Virgin birth, so fly away from my dust and ribs and clay.

I am only made wholly through your rains.

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Song of the Eagle

I look over the mountains and find old ghosts,
roaming these Shenandoah hills with plough and
sickle, there are cairns deep in the woods, where
Iroquois marked the passage of magic, trees bent
to signal the paths of deer, now forgotten signposts
that lead to the summit of Turtle Island. Did the
colonists know, these woods have enchantments of
ley lines and shamans and Butterfly Men? Be careful,
your woman may be stolen by a spirit bridegroom,
tread cautiously, there are arrowheads in the dark.
Witches and sages alike meet at midnight on crescent
mountains, deep in the forests where crow and spider
make their nests and webs, they pluck ginseng, they
smoke tobacco, they dance and revel in the secrets
of a hot Virginian summer, all sweat and blue glory,
flames rising high in shapes like a cottonmouth,
gliding across the river in serpentine coils brown.
We are the poison we bring to the land. We are the
balm to strip-mining and mountaintop removal. With
chains we can bind ourselves to trees deep within
and make our stands, no more darkness, no more
spillage in the waters, stinking with dead fish.
I walk the woods and trails and gather stardust,
brewing a potion of man returning to primeval
dusk, living off land with chickens and bees,
planting tomatoes and strawberries to placate
land spirits, I look out upon squirrel and finch
and mourning dove, we are just guests in America,
those of us with skin the color of traitors.
We owe much in service for our ancestor’s sins,
so be the saving grace of redemption, an ally
to the bruised and broken peoples and land,
make your last stand by the mountain, my child
and I will flute your heart aback eagle wings.