The hawk comes every day now.
He swept across my vision that first time
seizing my attention like unwary prey
landed just outside the window
and hunched down to stare at me.
I have seen eagles up close
crows, cormorants, herons
all unmistakably lovely
but this was different.
Rain falls in tireless ribbons
drifting down from a silver sky
like wet tinsel on a sodden tree.
The cold hides inside my clothing
clings to my skin in thin, icy layers
draws its fingers at last into my bones.
And yet I cannot stop looking
cannot help but raise my face to the mist
for a last…
There are two kinds of poets.
One moves through the world collecting words
like a woman placing gems into a reed basket.
Words that burn and cool
words that soar and sink
that lift the spirit or strangle the breath.
Words come from everywhere:
the rails of train stations in rural India
a coil of sunlight through…
My heart is rain-soaked
sodden to overflowing.
It fills me to bursting and leaks
from every pore
until I could water the world with it.
I was taught one must not
write about the heart
rather, find metaphor
use other colors to paint the thing
one wants to express.
Surely we weren’t meant
to walk alone.
These days I force myself outdoors
without picking up a leash
without pocketfuls of treats
or a ball in hand.
I scarcely know how to move
my hands fall at my sides
foolish empty things.
For years you marked my steps
out ahead, close…
I step out into dusk after a difficult day
spent wrestling demons indoors.
Wind shushes in the treetops
and something heavy lifts off my shoulders.
Tall spirits walk beside me in the dark
I can’t explain how I know this
but if you were here you would feel them too.
Depending on how you see things
the road is either a strip of mud
or a silver ribbon in muted moonlight
and poetry streams behind me in the wind
that only the spirits can read. I will try
to capture it later and wrestle it
much like a demon, or clouds passing
over a three-quarter moon.
Kara B. Imle is a poet, memoirist, and healer. She lives in the liminal space between land and sea, on a small island in the Pacific Northwest. She likes hiking, kayaking, and geeking out on words.
Some days being alive
is harder than others.
Today a cloudbank sat on my chest
weighed me down
pulled me under.
Restless, I tried for breath
came up with only bubbles:
not enough for my blood
that grows richer by the day.
Time wears onward
the shadow follows wherever I go
We go out into the cold
and black of a new-moon night
climbing down slick boulders
to feel our way toward the sea,
three women seeking treasure.
We are blind except for the lamps
arrowing through curtains of fog
we make with our breath.
We follow instinct toward the water’s edge
which has receded so far
My body is a beehive
humming from root to crown
filled with the nectar of desire
its borders laced in sacred geometry.
The queen hides her golden wings
in clefts no lover can fathom
unless, in seeking her ambrosia
they risk her sting.
What will you do with your pain?