7 Things

My friend Buddah Moskowitz tagged me to tell 7 things. I lub me some Mosky, so this is them.

You asked.
You opened your mouth,
opened the door,
opened the cage, and I leapt out--
whatever I do from here is on you.

7 things about me.
Here's one--
I unfold from sky, from clouds.
I sit, I nod, I'm still,
but all the time, the dark could-be spreads across me from the inside;
lightning shocks my heart,
thunder rolls,
wind knocks me open like a wooden gate that's wild to run.

Here's two--
when I raise my head,
I raise it twice;
one is wicked, one is nice
and neither one listens to any damned old men.
I am the double bloom
on a double stem.
Cut me if you like; I'll grow again.

Here's three-
mother, mother's daughter, and me.
The other is the one she thinks I am,
and we all stare at each other
unblinking, unforgiving,
and as unrelated as bird, ghost, and stone.

Here's four--
four legs to take me all directions at once,
and the screaming you'll hear
from the trees at night
is frustration shaking my human form,
breaking its neck
and carrying it back through hell towards surcease.

Here's five--
root, base, stem, leaf, bloom.
I told you that I would grow again.
Reapers, did you forget?
You, lost on the overgrown path of me?

Here's six--
the six women I have loved.
One of them I love still, and without caution.
All dark,
all damaged,
all with an extra ear that the gods sing into.
This is why they are driven mad by the moon,
and why I have needed to be near them,
like stars.

Here's seven--
There is a storm from which I find no shelter.
There is a will within me that nothing can kill.
There is a name that I've given myself--call me by it or expect no answer.
There is a fire I walk through, not because I love the burning, but because I love the promise that it will end.
I am vines. There is really only a way through for one.
There are pieces of God in every woman. This is why we embody so much beauty, and how we endure so much pain.

There are your seven things.
Destroy the cage.
Close the door again, softly.
Shut your mouth, at last, at last.
Whatever I do from here is on me, like rain on a cat's coat.
She can't find home,
and yet, always, she hurries on.
_____