Sometimes I try 
to go back and build a bridge 
between Seaside Villas and 
Rye Drive. It's a circle, though. 
With non-verifiable tunnels. 

Between three swimming pools 
rooftop friendsgivings 
djembe drums and campfire songs 
with the dolphins. 

There's no sailboat 
on this trip. 
It's all speed, Captain Morgan 
and invisible sand bars. 

Fresh fish on the grill and
pina colada pool parties. 

Then there's this lush garden 
backyard. Midwest dancing 
in the rain. Kettle One 
and lemonade. 

Pool nights/ school nights 
with children when we open 
up the windows to the rain 
over the oaks. 

I still felt rightly wild then. 
Until all of a sudden 
I didn't. 

My favorite mystic 
had a moment 
listening to conservative radio 
in her car. 

She denounced the archangels
gave away her crystal books 
and sold her sanctuary 

     for all I know she 
moved to the suburbs 
and landed under some stained-
glass art of the crucifixion--
a violent reminder of 

nine million women and children 
burned in the inquisition. 

I picture her now in a cold 
room, surrounded by           men 
silently holding a Bible. 

Here's what happened. 
I was lured 
into 
the patriarchy again. 

There were children to rear. 

Protector/ provider sounded nice. 
For once. 
A Sabbatical. To rest. 
Two dogs who hardly barked. 

I now practice gratitude
and I do not regret. 

     I ate the apple. I always 
eat the apple because, Orion
harmonics. 

     I woke up 
In a red state with my blue 
heart throbbing, an old lyric 
from a past life 

stars, sunset, sand

     endless constellations I still 
don't understand. An orange 
square with a crowd on the front
A roadblock in my atrium 
that bass line, though

what if I told you that for years 
I was lost 
inside 
a song?

Not lost now but wandering
in the same 
sacred 
circle. 

As if the eleven was chasing me 
and I was always running 
after trains that don't always feel
meant for me. To be.
What's the wisdom 
in the twin 
flame? 

I begin to sit in the circle again 
and breathe 
to dream. 

Your power, my child, 
the innocent healing 
in eternity
your mission to find your own 
​sacred song.

I went into the amethyst
and asked the Great Spirit 
to help me 
understand 

the wound in my solar plexus. 

Was it a cut cord? Or something 
to which I was tethered. 

I had made a man 
my god again. 

I asked the citrine 

and the guide who calls me 
moon child said quietly, 

I must do a ceremony 
for the women. 
     The sisters and myself 
before everyone else 
each morning. 

Her name is Gray Smoke. 
She is older than my 
grandmother. 

There are things I am not. 
I am not the keeper of the plants 
you might see from this 
money tree. 

I could be the keeper of the stones. 

​My brother's lesson 
is green. 

That was enough, she said, 
for now. Then I saw reds, 
and an explosion of a soft sky 
moving clouds.