Pulse

World Pulse

If you wake in the middle of the evening
you can hear their voices one by one singing
collectively humming
all across the world strumming
on the chords of the moon
we're stepping back into the light
reclaiming the garden
walking around earth dirty and wet
smelling of sandalwood beds and fig incense
strawberry juices on our fingers
berries wild climbing with morning glories
sitting on the porch weaving stories
we fear we will lose unless we recite them
again and again and again
claiming we don't know the difference any more
between lovers and friends
it all seems to blend when you're open
and all of these things, they might be forbidden
all the more reason to be spoken,
because how many stories have we put to bed
because we didn't know how to undress them?
how many poems have just been hung on hooks
behind doors, and never worn again
when just holding them, made us visible?
we seem to be paying interest on life
but we never touch the principle
I'm convinced I was meant to be a fairy in a garden bed
not a robot programmed to do all the same things you can
I can feel my hands resisting the computer these days

wanting the piano instead under my hands
I think I can play so many instruments
if I'd only be given enough time during the day to practice
there are chords I know by heart
that ive never played
and I fear this salary will waste it away

wake in early evening
and you can hear them collectively singing
the pulse of the world, the humming of women
who hear each other across deserts
and from underneath oceans

we're starting to sing to crystal bowl sounds
we're bringing the moon closer to the ground

there are no books we need to burn
but we're diving into the patriarchal library
scavenging invisible existences
for tangible evidence
that we were born from a matriarch
before burned for our wisdom
I’m coming back from history
wearing Joan of Arc’s armor
holding fire like Prometheus
with the earth on my back like Atlas
we’re going to get to the bottom of this
and re-write it.