these gifts, freely given
to listen to your ancestors
requires the following
four years of quietude
an empty stomach
a warm cup of strong tea
(in a style your relatives recognize),
a blanket under the canopy
of a tree as old as your great-grandfather
after this, all you need is
the humility
to love
the sand in your mouth & the
cracked china on the stair & the
crinkles in your smile & the
shrieking can’t on the wind & the
guts on your boots & the
down quilt on the bed & the
boiling rock in your stomach & the
blood on the carpet & the
tears in your hair
for they gave
you all
—Isaac Lewis
The Faucet
This faucet here,
I keep it slow
a steady trickle
a sneaking drip.
What happens when
I let it go?
I’m older now
I think I know.
At first it’s good,
a thrilling flow
a gushing hose
Put on your suits
We’re all lined up
so grateful, loose.
It’s your turn now
You next, me too
The sun is high —
No better day
to splash through sky
to palm the spray
Then.
The water stops.
Mid-air, it drops.
The faces fall,
the shoulders shrug
I wave goodbye
as you
all
go
home.
So now I’ve learned
to keep it slow
though few may come,
those few won’t go
—Sarah Avenir
Sarah Avenir is a writer, reader, and aspiring hermit. Keeper of many side projects at sarahavenir.com.
The Sun Also
As we feel the sun upon our faces
Does the sun also feel our faces
When we feel the wind upon our cheeks
Does the wind also feel our cheeks
When we hear the waves a crashing
Do the waves know that we are listening
Do the stars sense our wonder
Does the storm see us trembling
I suspect that it is so.
—Makashael
