by Jeff Berger
Until the myths that bind us
Are rewritten, we cannot see our freedom,
Though it is always there, merely beyond the reach
Of our expanding awareness. Life
Is only our conceit, as individuals playing hide and seek
With the rest. Dividing the spoils of an ash-covered world
We dare others to do the same; but if they simply share all,
Dumbstruck we roam into fertile fields that leave us weeping
At their free abundance.
When she turned my ego on myself, I mused on the wild aspects of pain
Which render it more folly than loss, and sport rather than misery.
She stirred my array of self-complaints, which merged into new phenomena
At her touch: the morbid detritus of indiscretion became the freshest dew
That dawn could bring; and in her gaze, I tumbled over my past arrogances
Like a child playing among soft pillows. And then I knew I had not lost
My Eurydice, but that she waits for me in every female form. This wonder
I could not choose, for the elect are not keepers of their fortune.
Her capture of my eyes entranced the body which became ecstatic when our
Bodies met. The complex emotions of her breast were kindling consumed in
The simple fire of my devotion. And when I set before her gentle heart my
Demons to burn away, she appeased them, extinguishing their wrath with kisses,
Sparing me of cruelty. She was wise in her motion in body and mind
As she revolved around me while both our wounds were healed. Every
Touch which seemed accidental was the place where fate had brought us
And when to the knowing soul of our togetherness we made offering as one,
We traced our steps, and honored the goddess who paved our path.
If in this life we turn with grace upon the other, the stranger, then
The lover may always emerge in the next card, and return again
Whenever the wish is present. This face of the lover is never
What we expect but more infinite in surprises than any conscious world.
This is the habitation of dreams, and when we see in them precisely what
The other sees, the stranger, the lover