Tuesday, September 27, 2016



Wife and dogs have gone to bed. I sit here with the front door open and night waltzes in. Crickets sing patiently, a long lullaby in four part harmony. Rain falls on our tin roof; little taps of reality, start and stop. I breathe myself back into my body. Come back, self. You’ve been out fighting demons and bullies and liars. You’ve been talking to an electronic box with no ears. You’ve been cheering for a democracy that doesn’t exist. We’re all walking on bones. Some of us are walking on more bones than others. Breathe. Back into the body, little one. The human world is broken, but so beautifully. Corruption of the soul never shows the scars; when you don’t resist, there are no wounds. Breathe, breathe it back. In this world, we live in bodies of flesh. In this world our souls tether themselves to blood. This is a good thing. Otherwise we might take wing into the darkness, never touch our Mother, twist language into silvery shapes. Breathe now. Let the crickets tell you their truth. Let it be yours, for now.

Deborah A. Miranda

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