Archive for November 26, 1992

I
my knife is bone.
I break in half
my knife of bone.
each half I place
into my mouth;
they’re just like fangs
with which I have
become a wolf.

II
to a weeping spirit woman
saddened by the sky,
I make you cut your hand
and then you break your knife.

III
mother wolf.

The Maker of Myths

Posted: November 26, 1992 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

“Had he no staff? Then with a dream-thread he held
the illusion. Breathing, he held it; the void, the illusion,
and felt for its earth. There was nothing to feel:
‘I shall gather the void’. He felt, but there was nothing.”
-Uitoto Indian Myth from The Red Swan

He had questions, and thoughts
About feeling nothing but the void,
Wishing for earth to stand on;
Dreaming of thread to hold the illusions
Of nothing, of the void.

Weave the earth from dream-thread
And the illusion of the void.
Where there was nothing,
There is now earth.
Gather the void into itself,
Into the crook of your arm,
Into the fold of your dress,
Also made of dream-thread.
All of you, made of earth.

“Now in the underworld, thinking and thinking,
the maker of myths permitted this story to come into being.”