SHE
I am the ghost who sits in the window writing. I am all the women, and all the men, sitting at the open window writing. I am never here, yet I am always dreaming myself here.
I am the woman slowly aging as my fingers do the typing. My pen scrawls the cobwebs of yesterday, tomorrow and today.
I am the child playing, catching butterflies, then releasing them.
I am the chrysalis that lasts forever.
I am the strange border between this world and the next where everything is taken care of.
You have initiated me in the Temple of I AM NOT. You have initiated me in the Temple of I AM. You have taken my clothes and dressed me impeccably. You made my breasts and teeth and eyelashes. You gave my milk and you took it.
We remembered. We told the stories. We dissolved into frog-song. We freed each precious bird of soul. We listened. And, we listened.
I have written many books. I write all books. I eat them. I shit them. I fuck them. I make them as seeds for future possibility. I plant them in dark soil and wait for sprouts.
I am the book that lied so that you could forgive me. I twisted the stories so that you could untangle yourself. I beg, borrow, cheat and steal. I walk naked in your backroads. Error or no error, I keep going.
I am the power of membranes. Through me, you manifest bodies. You know self and world and other.
Through me, you die and are born again. You know the immaculate miracle of conception. You incarnate, build armors, then soften your edges. You break open with ripe fruit then put yourself back together again.
I am the water running, rushing, misting, pouring. I am the vine twining, the ant crawling, the baby whining.
I took your lightning and plugged it into my sockets.
I am the womb that made you and the womb within you. I shaped you in my holy of holies. You are familiar. I know the structure of your most profane mathematics.
We climbed your mountains, danced in your meadows, and bathed in your rivers. We rested in your shade while the small, dark man with white beard and bright eyes sang down the rain. His language climbed the lattice, promising answers to all of water’s desires.
We are the children who know ourselves by heart, refusing to forget our place in the pattern.
I am the dying one, wrinkled and desiccated on my last night, whispering love notes to every being in existence. My voice fails before naming them all. In death, I become them, then continue my praising.
I am death and dying and deadness. I am the body of immortality. I take in order to give more.
I am on both sides and all sides, within and without. I am over you, under you and through you.
I am the no-thing that made you. The god, the goddess.
I am the impulse for more, for less for anything.
The indomitable.
I am SHE. I am you. I am Life.
