Astral
Wings
by
Leland Jamieson
For
W.T.J.
May 14, 2007.
Though
we are far away
from you at four
o’clock
this morning,
I wake up and
light
a candle on our
mantle —
metaphor
for fragile consciousness
I would excite
(calmly!) and
with your own,
today, unite.
May yours be free
of what might
make you fret.
May you feel centered
— and, in
all, “all
set.”
You
want to heal and
get on with your
life —
the volleyball
and pure math
you so love
at URI! But first
the surgeon’s
knife
and saw in hand
(in sterile rubber
glove
beneath your collarbone)
must free you
of
your top-most
rib which crowds
your right arm’s
vein
and artery —
and caused that
clot, and pain.
It
grieves your mom
and dad, your
grandma, and
me too that you
must suffer this
“KO.”
“Why me?”
you ask. We too.
(Not what we planned.)
Though heart flash
Inner Eye what’s
apropos,
hush Inner Ear
— alone,
it can’t
bestow
much certainty
despite clay jabberwocky
old astronauts
laid down (those
Anunnaki.)
Then
by what grit do
we persist? What
hope?
My money’s
on Divine Intelligence.
It’s that
which twists the
body’s helix
rope,
gives us a wealth
of common and
sixth sense,
supplies for tender
flesh and bones
defense
so skin-clad dreams
may thrive —
’til, satiated,
we fly on astral
wings they’ve
celebrated.
©
2007 by
Leland Jamieson
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