Married in a Cave

October morning remaining dark. There is no goddess here and the witch is off bathing in the river we once called “sacred.”

A hard sob refusing to stay in the throat. She who was married in a cave knows the tiniest prick of light to be enough to save the whole world.

It rains all day, east and west. The highway doesn't get a say, but it sure does do a lot of talking.

A message in a magic bottle floats up onto the shore and reads, “stop fucking around, in all the ways, for the sake of all the people.” And just like that, a broken little girl is admonished by her father.

Magic indeed! Divorce the body and live free.

Eleven turkeys meander about the neighborhood, scratching at perfectly manicured lawns. They emitting purring giggles along the way and I laugh with them as they destroy the mundane status quo in their innocence.

The mirror looks at me as if it doesn't understand my grief and so, in that way, perhaps I will return to getting undressed in the dark. Ego speaks again, for now.

In the mid-morning dream, we told my family the news and nothing stayed the same, except, we were together. Together, together.

Slick, yellow-red maple leaves press themselves against deck chairs and pine-needle beds and asphalt driveways. One stands in the middle of October and shivers, for winter is on the way.

We want love to win and at 100 turtles deep, we know it does. Do we know it at 101 turtles deep?