Echoes of Tragedy

Mary Oliver, From "Blue horses"

“There is a difference between holy and pure. Holy is also the way the anger boils inside our throats, the forgotten in us that carves at our bellies, the need to turn the heavens themselves inside out when they twist the knife, and laugh, laugh, laugh. Unlearn holy as gentle. This is the lie we have all been feeding each other, mother to daughter, asking the calm within us to braid our hair, to touch a cool palm to our cheeks, remind us every night that anger will return ten fold if we do not control it. Forgive, forgive, forgive. Pure is what they measure out for us, like we are their personal recipes. As though we are made for practice, not for ourselves. A cup of softness, half a bowl of innocence, a bucket full of virginity, pretend prison is our feast while they devour, devour, devour. We know better now. We face fires hand in hand. We look at each other and say the words each of us needs to hear. We let the anger boil and let loose flame by volatile flame. We smile, sacred burning, burning, burning, and reincarnate.”

“Tell me darling, would you still love me If I told you about the monsters I need to sing to sleep every night? If you understood the way I need to tiptoe across my own mind so I can fall asleep before daylight? if you knew where the nightmares came from, if you saw my scarred soul, would being with me terrify you? If you knew the full extent of the damage they have done to me, would you stay, would you still want to?”

“My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that, and I intend to end up there.”

“We call the sun Apollo, he. We paint the moon a woman who waits patiently for her turn to rise, she. I don’t understand. The sun gives life and there is nothing more synonymous to that than a woman.”