Age four I was called
by the wounded earth smell
of a freshly trimmed hedge
the way honey sounds
under a full moon breathing
my grandma’s scent of polka dots…
At the portal to fluid reality
my karma scope cast
lights of glad kindness
and legends seeping through me.
I remember sickness
every childhood disease
and talking to aliens
(probably delirious with fever)
but I remember there was magic
in a mimosa tree
and a belting for sharing
knowledge of my anointment.
They cut the tree down
and forbade the utterance
of anything not Biblical.
I said little for years
afraid of my tongue
and shadows greater than my own.
I’m past the noise of tidiness,
posted regulations
through 40 translations
and constant derailment
of what I might have been
without cruelty and jumbled senses.
From tasting pain in everything
picked and dying to now
it is the voice of the rock
not the river I hear…
with cinnamon periscope eye
(Meet Mago Contributor) Belinda Subraman.