just as i knew it would, it arrives with an old blade
well-whetted and thirsty
—the thing that i asked for, that i called by name
you might think that prayers are soft things, feathery
if you mean them, they are not
the small, silvery words that wait in the shallows
next to my tongue, are weapons
they know how to draw blood, demand it
here is my life wide open on the stone
how it has become the only offering that i own
how it watches me from the other side of the room, watches
to see what i will do, and i
am both child and crone
a weaver of circles, despite what i was shown
there are things i was not born into, where they now breathe in my hands
i made them
myself
from all that i was given
—the roots, the bitter herbs that i did not sow
that i refuse to reap
in the morning, with sleep-soft eyes
i open my mouth wide and i bless my bleached bones
with black of raven, with yew
let me die a hundred rattling deaths today, let me die
even seventy times seven
my life is watching, waiting
to marry my words, to dwell in sooth
to be one.
© Liezel Graham 2021
words about a thing that came after it was asked for, after i spoke it into shape and how, when it arrived, it needed me to cut through things in my life, asked for a sacrifice.
how we think that prayer is a soft, feathery thing.
it is not.
it is speaking things into their shape, breathing life into what is unseen.
use your words wisely.
let your life be a circle, ever opening to let one more soul in to warm themselves by the fire. your life is watching you, waiting to see if it can dwell in truth with your words.
liezel graham 