December 7 2023

The Return

Some day, if you are lucky,
you'll return from a thunderous journey
trailing snake scales, wing fragments
and the musk of Earth and moon.
Eyes will examine you for signs of damage,
or change and you, too, will wonder
if your skin shows traces of fur, or leaves
if thrushes have built a nest of your hair,
if Andromeda burns from your eyes.

Do not be surprised by prickly questions
from those who barely inhabit their own fleeting lives,
who barely taste their own possibility, who barely dream.

If your hands are empty, treasureless
if your toes have not grown claws,
if your obedient voice has not become a wild cry, a howl,
you will reassure them. We warned you, they might declare,
there is nothing else, no point, no meaning,
no mystery at all, just this frantic waiting to die.

And yet, they tremble, mute, afraid you've returned
without sweet elixir for unspeakable thirst, without a fluent dance
or holy language to teach them, without a compass
bearing to a forgotten border where no one crosses
without weeping for the terrible beauty of galaxies
and granite and bone.

They tremble, hoping your lips hold a secret,
that the song your body now sings will redeem them,
yet they fear your secret is dangerous, shattering,
and once it flies from your astonished mouth,
they-like you-must disintegrate
before unfolding tremulous wings.

- Geneen Marie Haugen

(My worst best friend Jeffrey sent me that.)