The Sorrows of Mara

Astrology. Archetypes.
Slowly, I heal.
The stones they stuffed in my belly
begin to loosen
rubbing to grit.
I face each mythical monster,
three swords held in my heart
for my three sorrows.
One: my womb;
two: earth, the planet;
three: genocide.

Our capacity to grieve becomes
stymied when funeral ceremonies
are banned. For in our fear
of death we forget to love it, too.
We drink and smoke away the pain
to bury it instead.
I choose celibacy over sobriety
to nurse my self back to health.
Squatting over pots of herbs,
assisted by smoke,
I pray and come.

In the sandstorms
I keep forgetting to breath.
Losing practice, it becomes harder to do;
I gasp awake each night.
I try to meditate at Mara, knowing this desert
is an old one, as the skies above burn.
From where I sit I can see Death Valley
and its mass graves.
“Heal your self to heal the world.”
I weep.

– september 2020