Two Midnights in a jug

Those of us far removed,
winged and bruised,
watch from the fringes,
as the caravan goes by.

A grand retinue billows,
fervent and reverent
intent whispers
chant woven incense swaths.

“Storm god, sun god,
first born of the Sun,
gold is your sweat,
silver are the tears
of your sister moon,
light and listless
gathered in sacred cups.”

“He’s two midnights in a jug,”
says the old timer.

I lean closer at the coming
interlude of laughter
in our banter,
but his eyes are
vehement and crazed
with a prophet’s glare.

I am consumed by fire
from the Sun’s hand,
choke on want,
at the vertiginous
point of pivot on the pendulum,
and leaves give way to apple blossoms.

The storm god approaches
and wildflowers
stand to attention,
align to invisible stars,
bid their turn
to blink fragrance.

He smells of a windstorm
I could inhale so deeply
I’d be seized in first thunder,
turbulent water and foam,
torrential riot of color,
panpipes and dancebells,
beginning of things
in the iris of his eye,
the end to my diaspora of self.

“He is two midnights in a jug,”
comes the second warning.

I move away from the old timer,
his voice, his warnings,
to the windstorm’s sky dragon’s headdress,
his body clad in skins of lions,
in his embrace a bird’s eye view,
his feet terraces
in concentric circle
concordance with mountain sides.

I, but a small gray bird
never assigned a song,
as his clapping calls echo
down twisted stairways,
respond an unexpected harmony,
and color flows elaborate
from my every pore.

I am song poised to soar,
arched wings to twine
with his wind.

Pillars of creation tremble,
sway and tower above me,
my feet tangle in leaves,
gusts like punches
rip at skin,
a soul seized and eclipsed
by Love’s shadow.

Blinded, I crawl
into stillness,
the old timer calls
and I respond
with voice dulled
as rose-granite
under gorges.

He pats dirt and sand
to mend my broken body,
and when my hands feel his,
I cry out: “Father!”

He wipes black tears,
tucks me in,
arranges my frayed hair
round my face.

“Where is he?”

“He swam under the earth
back to the East.”

“Will he come back?”

“This is an unmarked grave,
with no ties to the Sun.”

The finality
casts striking shadows
roundabout.

“Father, will I rise again?”

“My daughter, you drank
two measures of darkness,
only centuries of Sleep
will restore you.”

He kisses my forehead
and draws lines and time spans
on my soft surfaces,
desert glyph summons
for sky gods to follow.

Extinct gods
who will scurry through ages,
and for whom
I am the footnote,
fleeting embrace,
between solace and
wounded love.

Two midnights in a jug.

 

 

My name is Anna Donovan. I have always had an affinity and love for language. I am always tuning in to the sound and taste of words. I am currently an MS Office and developmental English instructor at a county community college in Dallas, TX.