By Theresa Holleran
In the time after Loss
I found myself.
Not whole, like a fully formed symphony,
melodic tunes tumbling ecstatically, one note at a time,
into a coherent harmony,
Or an emergence of exquisite shape carved from rock
already itself.
But as pieces scattered, broken, among weeds
surviving where no water has come for a very long time.
I pick my pieces up
here and there
There is no pattern to reference to.
My hands bleed from my jagged edges.
Colors, shapes emerge, mingled with blood that is only mine.
I lay all that is me, tenderly, upon you.
I whisper your name…
Pachamama
I am your daughter.
I have been lost.
My tears make pools in your deep brown dirt.
Piece by piece, each part of me
Sinks into your soft mud belly.
Worms eat me for food
Insects make a home of me
New life creeps and burrows into my
empty places.
What was rotten becomes nectar
What was decayed becomes compost
What was broken is a mosaic of shape and texture.
Right here, right now
I surrender.
New life has its way with me.
My pain becomes a tapestry of miracles.