Brujeria
I don't know what fetch
was living in his hair
but there was always something
when it blew back in the hot breath
of the redtangled hills; new-hatched snakes perhaps
curling from the small broken shells of his words,
tendrilous avatars in those nights that hid
the color of blood so well;
or soft rain-threads each sweet as a sugarfall
on my open face as we made love,
for the medicine painting, not la brujeria,
skintalking the Healing Way.
Whatever it was, it
wasn't the mild dog in his eyes,
not fur, not a tail-wag.
It was syllogistic, sensate, restless;
hungry as a hopping flea.
whose tiny itch is only felt later.
Perhaps it even had Buddha nature,
or something else
borrowed from Kali.
It was one of those things about him
that taught me to look away.
I saw only its soft brown habitat
as I slipped my fingers through
felt its satin dance
against my touch
but what lived there never left
like all the other things I tried to disappear.
I could feel them breathing
though they never made a sound
not even now when
they ghost him back to my dreams.
August 2023
posted for Odd Little Things
Art nouveau lithograph poster 1903 ©Alphonse Mucha Public Domain
Man with Long Hair, ©Odd Nedrum Fair Use
I see and feel and even smell those curls! A beautiful, mysterious and poetic portrait.
ReplyDeleteA very intriguing character portrait.......I love all the amazing imagery......and the closing lines about "when they ghost him back to my dreams." Beautiful writing.
ReplyDelete"hungry as a hopping flea"...I like that! Your imagery throughout the poem is as always original and idiosyncratic...JIM
ReplyDeleteWhat I think Oates was getting at in that offhand statement about the odd little things writers do, it seems to resonate well and widely with our desperate crew. (We know a lot about inventing in desperate situations.) This poem so cunningly and craftily describes what is at work in that eye which finds such potent magic in a beloved. In AA some say "my God is eye-level," and that deity is poetry here (in spades, top-shelf), seeing in full measure what "skintalking the Medicine Way'" is, a poetry beyond spells and bone-rattle - "syllogistic, sensate, restless; / hungry as a hopping flea / whose tiny itch is only felt later." It's what remains - "what lived there never left / like all the other things I tried to disappear." Like Jack Gilbert said, "Love lasts by not lasting," a potent oddity for the heat sadness everyone seems so listless in these days. Friggen well done Hedge.
ReplyDeleteWow this is gorgeous. So impeccably written and almost intoxicating in its beauty - rich with the spell that holds. So good.
ReplyDeleteHey this is Eric. Wow! Perhaps we all have had *that* relationship, formative, futile, wrong in some ways and so right in others, and haunting. You paint that picture so well!
ReplyDeleteGorgeous, simply gorgeous, Joy. So layered and deep and full of ever-changing visions, like these lines:
ReplyDelete"when it blew back in the hot breath
of the redtangled hills; new-hatched snakes perhaps
curling from the small broken shells of his words,"
and just the whole beautiful telling of it in your signature dream-like gothic otherworldly way. Adore <3
Thank you, Sunra. I appreciate you coming by and leaving your thoughts. So glad you liked this one.
DeleteTo one extent or another, we all see what we want to see, and look away or disregard what we don't. Some are able to keep this to a minium, while others live in a refracted fairy land all the time. In any event, love or at least attraction makes it all that much more likely that we will not see what is really there until we've stopped only seeing what we wish were there, or what we loved best. What a not-that-fun funhouse life can be.
ReplyDelete