By Sarah Castrigano
I find her in the darkest places,
In between fevered dreams,
When I am wondering
am I dying?
Am I praying or begging? Clinging or fighting?
She whispers sweetly “You are.”
My mantra for her is a weeping sound,
it begins weakly then I am both lost and found in it like a wave reabsorbed.
Is she there at it’s crest, heaving and rising?
Is she the undertow?
I feel as though
Consumed I give in and realize
it spits from my open head,
above it a plume of numbers.
I tremble and collapse.
She smiles, reaches into me, finds pyramids and the moon.
to wrap my burning feet in cloths and walk behind her.
We walk while we sleep.
We do not stop.
Traversing a revolving calendar of composition and decomposition,
Our sustenance in mushrooms.
I’m not sure how I came to be here, or how long I’ll be.
I find myself at the shore of her sea
floating on bones,
wild eyed staring at the thickening moon,
Adorned with garlands of things found on this ancient beach
with an empty head I kneel and bow
dip my fingers into the tide and touch my forehead
The sea is our blood.
She stretches. Wets her feet and looks to me.
For now, I know,
having been shown
to return to the source
by drinking of it.
Sarah Castrigano lives in the Cleveland area with her spirited four year old daughter and husband in a house filled with music. She lovingly and humbly holds space as the co-owner of a small yoga studio where she practices bodywork and teaches yoga classes. She spends her time being fascinated by things and makes art from stones, bones, shells, silver, clay, ink, paint, charcoal, graphite and words. Her favorite place is her home where she can be both lost and found in the things she loves.
Editor: Alicia Wozniak
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