Rosaries, Rosehips, Revelation

When the sun hits full in the face, a feeling floods every cell: I need not survive. In those moments, I'd die happily, giving no care or concern to any matter. The borderlands of soul disappear and body unhinges itself from its mooring.

To be this undone.
To understand none of it can be held.

A cloud eventually comes or a chickadee breaks the spell or I fall into a swift slumber. I remember picking one violet to honor the occasion, allowing it to dry, adding it to a bouquet of forget-me-nots.

These luminous webs of interbeing.
These great weavers of light and dew and air.

We are from the earth, sky, sea and yet, we have fallen asleep. We have forgotten the rosaries made from rosehips. We have counted the stars as a parade for our folly.

If we are white, the colonization of this land we call “ours” reverberates against the act's double consciousness – the act of stealing or conquering what belongs to another, and the fact that our ancestors perpetrated these crimes without reconciliation or recompense.

“Florida student-athletes are now required to report and track their periods online for eligibility.”

We keep returning to the ingrained, unhealed nightmares. We keep taking what is not ours.

Hail Mary, mother of miracles, wake us the fuck up.

The moon slides through pine, oak and maple on its way to dawn. Diffused light sees itself in gutter puddles and cooling lakes. My ancestors rise in the mist, unsettled in their crimes – unmoored in my future.