Sing your psalms to the west. Best to throw your prayers to the Pacific, if it will have them. The tepid Atlantic doesn’t listen, and the elder gods are weary of the tiny, tinny words of men.
2
Force your body to ignore the circadian chirp of sleep. The lullaby whisper of truth is best heard in the dark, in the rustle of bare feet, in night-damp grass, in the starlit cry of an owl unbounded by walls.
3
Cast your eyes over the moon. The secrets she holds are dark, they weigh too much for brilliance. Trace the scars pitting her shy face, dark against the bonelit orb, ask yourself how she becomes a woman, unseen, new.
4
Dissolve into the dark the way rain falls against pavement: a sigh of steam seeking release, slipping the chain of memory and experiment with clarity, the blindness brought by night.
Colleen S. Harris is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee whose books of poetry include God in My Throat: The Lilith Poems (Bellowing Ark, 2009), These Terrible Sacraments (Bellowing Ark, 2010; re-released by Doubleback Books, 2019), and The Kentucky Vein (Punkin House, 2011), and she co-edited Women Versed in Myth: Essays on Modern Women Poets (McFarland, 2016). Her poetry has appeared in Main Street Rag, Free Verse, Appalachian Heritage, Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, 66: The Journal of Sonnet Studies, and Tipton Poetry Journal, among others.
