You can try to ignore them:

the hungry ghosts of
memory that travel inside
you like an old romance,
or you can open your eyes
and see her:

the melting priestess,
the lake of moon.

She came down from
the web of Andromeda and
royal-colored silence,
ancient heroes
and cackling gods,
almost as sublime as
my own shimmering sorrow,

and she's now rinsing
everything in her sight.

Your inner self can drink it
also, and soon
you can levitate like
the ferns,

and you can finally stop
asking where God is,
because God simply is
and is every breath and star
and the indigo fire
draped all over your pain.

It is all the love you
want to slip into
like the glass chains above
and there,

in one glittering tragedy
after another,
love seems reachable,
perhaps even real,

but only the love that is
who we always were,
only the love that never needs
pieces of you
to create all of me,

only the love that
opens the door
and sets the other free.


Patricia Joan Jones