Divination

Wow, I just realized I was a LITTLE late on posting this one. It was written for a lit-mag theme of "Tabula Rasa," and received recognition on the art site I belong to! :) I'll probably update when I hear back on whether this has been accepted to the journal or not.

I'm not sure the piece is evocative enough or flows well. All comments most welcome!

"I Have No Names of All My Teacup Babes"

I feel always like I am starting over.

As a magpie I gather trinkets under my pillow,
bay leaves and bags of herbs to bring the next lover to me,
to call the next dream-face forward—a picture
painted in the tea leaves.

But truth be told the start-again
is never clean, is never gentle,
and the sweat of all that labour
is a fire on my skin, telling me
I will never resist its wind-cry.

The moon comes when I call, to help me;
midwife, she is, and she carries into being my new selves
like the babes they are, teaches them to
fill long footsteps like hers.

Truth be told, I tire of the destiny
I was given once—I am a teacup,
and I cling close to my china womb,
to my cup tipped over, upset
by careless elbows.

I imagine Mother Moon climbing her way back to me
on the backs of pine trees, sweeping across the Appalachians.