I left thee where the evening kissed thy door,
Yet carried not departure in my chest;
For every mile that drew me from thy shore
Made oath of absence kneel before our rest.

The moon kept watch where two horizons bled,
One over thee, one underneath my wing;
And all the unsaid words between us spread
Like roots that know what buried waters sing.

No lock can teach a threshold how to close
When love has crossed it barefoot, name undone;
The hinge remembers what the doorway knows:
Two shadows parted still belong to one.

So keep that place where last I breathed thy air—
I left no ending, Love. I left me there.

Fer 28 sunrises

N’ a whole Full Moon,
We are tha doorway.

Red River runnin’
what’s gotta be carried off….

Ol’ grief n’ names.
N’ dem ol’ hungers
yep… they ain’t gotta place
in tha next world.

There,

Y’all have up n seen it…
Tha Marrow drinks tha green.

Star-Seed…

Sittin awl’quiet like…
’neath tha bone,

hold’n tight ta light
N’it ain’t never gonna be

beggin’ fer harvest time.

Here,
tha womb
turns her redolent soil

n’ petrichor rains

from ancient ancestral articulation.

Ain’t No hurry’n here nor there…

n’ ain’t no rush’n neither;

Cuz, haste makes waste.

Know hear here

n’ listen’n more‘n more

Ain’t no grabbin’ at Heaven
before Tha Dirt gives consent.

Up’n over tha one ocean,
two altars breathe.

Now one altar lets go.
n’ tha other’n steadies.

Then, one altar bleeds ta cleanse
n the other’n is taught…

…n’ learns real good
how not ta enter Her Sacredness
juss b’cuz tha gate is beyond glorious and beyond beautiful.

Ancestors move slow but powerfully.
Old hands surrounding tha unfinished cradle without speakin’.

Pushin’ inta tha next generation.

One goes out n’en one comes in.

Automatic!

All Spirit drivin’fear
from tha joints n’ Marrow,

’n worshin ancient shame
from tha grain.

Wrench’n it real clean like.

Leavin’ only
what holds Love.

We ain’t never gonna command
tha gate ta open…

Cuz Quiet speaks juss enough
ta hear whether it does.

n’ when it does… We know

n’ we cross…

barefoot.

Juss breath,
blood,
bone,

‘n two souls
standin’ reverent
before
what might become
life…

Yes Beautiful Life…

Stayin’ Beautifully Feral.

Mundane weren’t born beneath no comet.

No heavens opened.

No beasts knelt.

Stars stayed where stars had business staying.

He simply arrived.

Squalling.

Hungry.

Pissed about the temperature.

Same as everybody else.

His mama called him extraordinary.

Mamas are permitted such inaccuracies.

Everybody else called him Mundane because he possessed an uncommon gift:

He could explain nearly anything without actually meetin’ it.

He read everything.

History.

Medicine.

Philosophy.

Dead languages.

Livin’ religions.

He knew where words were born, which border bent their vowels, which scholar mistranslated them centuries later.

N’ Sunrise?

Atmospheric scattering.

Grief?

Psychophysiological response to attachment loss.

Orange?

Citrus sinensis.

Breath?

Autonomic respiration subject to voluntary modulation.

Mundane knew things.

Till he up’n stepped in cow shit.

Male bovine defecation…

…ta be precise.

Warm.

Fresh.

Undeniable.

He looked down.

Then toward Heaven.

“Of course.”

Beneath an old tree sat a weathered wanderer peeling an orange.

Worse than seeing it...

he was smiling.

“Do not.”

“I ain’t said nothin’.”

“Your face has.”

“Mah face gots its own business.”

Mundane scraped his sandal against a stone.

“This entire morning is ruined.”

Tha old wanderer looked east.

Morning remained enormous.

Birds fought over breakfast.

A woman carried bread home.

Children laughed beyond the road.

Sunlight spilled across a world apparently unaware of Mundane’s catastrophe.

“Whole mornin’?”

“Yes.”

Tha wanderer pointed toward his sandal.

“One pile?”

“Do not trivialize unpleasant experience.”

“Naw.”

He tapped Mundane’s forehead.

“Just wonderin’ how shit got from there...

ta here.”

Mundane stopped.

“Obviously cognition mediates subjective experience.”

A smile.

“Fancy.”

“It is accurate.”

“Aye.”

“Then we agree.”

“Naw.”

“I have just described precisely what you meant.”

“Ya described it.”

He pointed down.

“Still standin’ in it.”

Mundane looked.

He was.

Tha wanderer tossed him a rag.

“One pile.

Then ya decided shit weren’t supposed ta happen ta ya.

Then tha whole damn morning became guilty.”

Mundane wiped his foot.

“So you are distinguishing unavoidable pain from suffering generated by resistance and identification.”

“Boy.”

“Yes?”

“Ya keep taxidermin’ everything alive.”

Mundane paused.

“That is not a word.”

“See?”

Tha wanderer returned to his orange.

Mundane sat.

Mostly because leaving would have looked like defeat.

Half an orange landed in his hand.

Mundane inspected it.

“Sweet orange. Although its hybrid ancestry involving mandarin and pomelo populations makes the common taxonomy somewhat—”

Citrus oil struck him between the eyes.

He froze.

“Did you just spray me with orange peel?”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

“Orange was introducin’ herself.”

“I know what an orange is.”

“Didn’t ask.”

The fragrance reached him.

Sharp.

Green.

Bright.

Not orange as category.

Not orange as word.

This orange.

Here.

Already leaving.

Tha wanderer watched.

“There ya were.”

“I have been sitting here continuously.”

“Yer ass has.”

Mundane sighed.

“You are distinguishing conceptual knowledge from immediate experience.”

“Gone again.”

“What?”

“Ya felt it...

then ran off ta explain where ya been.”

Mundane bit the fruit.

Sweetness broke across his tongue.

Juice moved over his thumb.

For one breath there was nothing useful to say.

“Oh.”

Tha wanderer grinned.

“Aye.”

Mundane swallowed.

“This resembles the distinction between esoteric and exoteric knowledge.”

Tha old man scratched his beard.

“Tha oddah one.”

“Exoteric. From Greek exōterikos, concerning what is outward or publicly communicable. Esoteric derives from esōterikos, concerning what is inward.”

“Mm.”

Mundane waited.

“Well?”

“Ya know where tha words came from.”

“Yes.”

“Ever been where they point?”

Silence.

Tha wanderer nodded toward the books beside Mundane.

“Exoteric.”

Then toward the half-eaten orange.

Mundane considered.

“Esoteric.”

“Naw.”

“That follows directly from the distinction.”

“Word does.”

He leaned closer.

“Orange never called herself nothin’.”

Mundane stared at him.

“So what is esoteric knowledge?”

“Ask tha orange.”

“That is evasive.”

“Eat.”

“You clearly possess a philosophy.”

“Nope.”

“Doctrine?”

“No.”

“Religion?”

“Fuck no.”

Mundane liked him slightly better.

“Then what do you teach?”

Tha wanderer nodded toward the road.

A little brown bird hopped through the dust.

Pecked once.

Ate.

Left.

“Lazy heathen.”

Mundane looked over.

“What?”

“Didn’t plant shit.”

“No.”

“Didn’t harvest shit.”

“No.”

“Got no barn.”

“Birds do not require agricultural storage.”

“Scandalous.”

Mundane rolled his eyes.

“Your point?”

Tha wanderer watched the bird disappear.

“Tomorrow ain’t hungry yet.”

Mundane went quiet.

He knew teachings about presence.

Impermanence.

Nonattachment.

Surrender.

He began assembling them.

“Don’t.”

“I said nothing.”

“Yer face did.”

Mundane laughed.

Fair.

They sat.

Wind moved through leaves.

Somebody argued over lentils.

The bird returned.

For once Mundane did not identify it.

Did not compare teachings.

Did not reach backward for memory or forward for explanation.

Bird.

Dust.

Breath.

Orange upon his fingers.

Cow shit in his sandal.

Here.

Tha wanderer spoke softly.

“Where ya at?”

“Here.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Not here.”

“Yesterday?”

“Not here.”

Mundane closed his eyes.

“Be here now.”

“Sounds bossy.”

One eye opened.

“Now be here.”

Tha old man smiled.

“Aight’den.”

Dark came without announcement.

Mundane lay beneath the tree watching his thoughts build worlds.

Money.

Mother.

Reputation.

Things already dead.

Things not yet born.

Then one sank its hook:

What if I never become anything?

Usually he bit.

This time...

he watched.

The thought waited.

Receiving no argument, it wandered off.

“Old man.”

“Mmm?”

“It left.”

“Mmm.”

“I didn’t suppress it.”

“Nope.”

“I didn’t resolve it.”

“Nope.”

“I simply observed… right?”

“Careful.”

Mundane stopped.

Then laughed quietly.

From the darkness came tha old voice.

“Some things ya know by catchin’ ’em.”

A pause.

“Some ya know by lettin’ ’em go.”

Morning arrived.

Tha wanderer was already walking.

Mundane hurried after him beneath an enormous pack.

“What ya carryin’?”

“Food. Clothing. Rope. Flint. Two knives. Medical supplies. Reference texts.”

“Wisdom?”

“Considerably.”

Tha wanderer lifted one strap.

“Wisdom heavy.”

“Knowledge has weight.”

“Aye.”

He walked on.

Mundane followed.

“Where are we going?”

“Road.”

“That is not a destination.”

“Good.”

“How far?”

“Enough.”

“What if it rains?”

“We get wet.”

“What if we are robbed?”

“Yer wisdom gets lighter.”

“You are terrible at reassurance.”

Tha wanderer stopped.

“I ain’t here ta make ya certain.”

“Then what?”

He stepped close.

“Curious enough ta live without it.”

And continued east.

Mundane followed.

Toward forests.

Mountains.

Empty bowls.

Vanishing pictures.

Bells whose ending could not be found.

Children who understood what scholars complicated.

Birds without barns.

Flowers without wardrobes.

Treasure thieves could not reach.

Kingdoms nobody could point toward on a map.

Same water.

Different wells.

Mundane knew none of this yet.

Good.

Knowing woulda ruined it.

For now there was only tha road.

One weathered wanderer ahead.

One learned man behind.

And one stubborn bit of cow shit lodged in a sandal.

“Wait.”

Tha wanderer kept walking.

“You have never told me your name.”

He stopped.

Turned.

“Numen.”

Mundane’s eyes brightened.

“Latin. Numen. Divine presence, will, sacred agency, the root from which—”

Numen closed his eyes.

Mundane caught himself.

Stopped.

Numen opened one eye.

“There ya are.”

Mundane smiled.

Then another question came.

“Numen.”

“Aye?”

“What is the true difference between exoteric and esoteric knowledge?”

Numen pointed toward Mundane’s books.

“What somebody can tell ya.”

Then touched his own chest.

“What nobody can know fer ya.”

He walked on.

Mundane remained still.

No definition arrived.

Behind him...

there.

Beneath him...

here.

Ahead...

Numen grew smaller upon tha road.

Mundane whispered,

“I am there.”

Numen never turned.

His voice drifted back through morning:

“There I AM.”

Something opened.

Mundane reached for his notebook.

From halfway down tha road:

“Goddammit.”

Mundane laughed.

Closed the book.

And walked.

Tha road beneath his feet required no explanation.

Only feet.

Aight’den…

I’m locking the door on that moment.

Hear Here n’ Now T’ya you’unz who hear…

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Salt tha sills n threshold
Iron tha tongue.
Bank tha fire.

Original Mother,
keep earth.

Original Father,
keep breath.

Ancestors,
keep blood.

Old Ones,
keep tha threshold.

Marrow…

keep what crawls beneath.

PERICARDIAL THUMP.

THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.

Keep yer young’uns.

All.

Tender.
Strange.
Scarred.
Scared shitless
inside their own skin.

Keep tha loud ones.
Tha quiet ones.
Tha fat ones.
Tha thin ones.
Tha ones with crooked teeth
’n crooked theology.

Porch witches.
Garden heathens.
Failed saints.
Tender bastards
smellin’ faintly
of compost
’n questionable decisions.

Keep ’em.

THUMP.

Fetch tha monsters.

Nah.

Not horns.

Horns got blamed
fer enough shit already.

Bring tha pretty fuckers.

Clean hands.
Smilin’ teeth.
Clever tongues.

Them that find a wound
’n whisper into it.

Closer.

Closer.

Till cruelty sounds
like yer own voice.

That’s how tha hollow works.

Ain’t thunder.

Ain’t claws.

Just a cold little draft
through tha cracks:

ugly.

unwanted.

too much.

not enough.

Again.

Softer.

Till yer own mouth
learns tha words.

Till yer spine hears ’em
before yer ears.

Hackles.

Gut.

That old animal
beneath civilization
sniffin’ tha room.

Something hungry here.

Not fer flesh.

Worse.

Light.

That little angel-ember
buried where laughter
couldn’t quite kill it.

Tiny bastard.

Barely warm.

Still
alive.

Tha hollow kneels.

Smiles.

Whispers:

go out.

THUMP.

Nah.

THUMP.

I said

nah.

I know that voice.

Slept amongst it.

Know Hell’s smallest tongue:

contempt.

But here’s tha part
Hell never taught me.

Fire ain’t only fer burnin’.

Sometimes
ya cook beans on it.

Sometimes lightning
ain’t judgment.

Sometimes tha whole damn sky
just hollers

LOOK UP.

We been lookin’ down
too long.

At bellies.
Scars.
Failures.
Who got banned.
Who got blocked.
Who fucked whom.
Who gained weight.
Who fell apart.
Who got lonely enough
ta tell tha truth
where witnesses could hear.

Dangerous business,
that truth.

Folks claim ta love vulnerability

till somebody leaves
a handle on it.

Then suddenly
a confession
got a bayonet.

Nah.

Not beneath these wings.

Bring receipts.

Bring thunder.

Argue till tha moon
files a noise complaint.

But a body
ain’t an argument.

Pain
ain’t content.

Trust
ain’t carrion.

And cruelty
don’t turn clever
because six chucklefucks
found tha laugh button.

PERICARDIAL THUMP.

There.

Tha Message.

Not

be nice.

Fuck nice.

Nice is casserole
somebody forgot ta salt.

Be human.

Harder spell.

Kindness got knuckles.

Mercy keeps a skinning knife
’n mostly uses it
on apples.

Respect knows
exactly where yer soft

and leaves it
soft.

That’s power.

I got teeth.

Course I do.

Original Mother made wolves too.

But what good
is crawlin’ outta Hell

if ya come back
sellin’ timeshares there?

THUMP.

I want porches.

Long tables.

Strange bread.

Arguments ending:

eat, asshole,
yer soup’s cold.

Somebody disappears

somebody notices.

Ya good?

Nah.

Really.

Ya good?

I want horns grown crooked.

Faces relearned.

Scars retired
from auditionin’
fer forgiveness.

Friendship?

Husbandry.

Tend tha damn thing.

Water.

Watch weather.

Prune what’s dead.

Don’t chainsaw tha peony
then sue Spring.

THUMP.

So take my blessin’,
pretty fucker.

May kaleidoscopic crystal spurs
flower in every joint
of contempt.

Ruby.

Violet.

Emerald.

All them gorgeous little bastards
turnin’
every time cruelty struts.

May gout grease its hinges.

May arrogance limp
all tha way home

wonderin’
why Grandfather’s honest iron
suddenly looks comfortable.

That ain’t vengeance.

That’s horticulture.

Weeds get pulled.

Shit gets composted.

Even rot
can become tomatoes
if ya quit worshippin’ it.

PERICARDIAL THUMP.

Blast this
muthuh fuck’n
RAINBOW.

Not some tidy little arc
fer greeting cards.

Nah.

Give me spectral violence.

Light cracked open
on purpose.

Red bleeding inta orange.

Blue fuckin’ violet.

Colors refusing
ta stay
in their assigned lanes.

Wyrd light.

Weird light.

Every color born
from one white beam
getting broken

and becoming
more beautiful
because of it.

There’s yer covenant.

Quit feeding monsters.

Feed people.

Feed art.

Feed tha odd little ember
some clever bastard
nearly laughed dead.

Cup yer hands around it.

Look.

Still burning.

Stubborn little fucker.

Sacred things
often are.

I ain’t here ta kill ya.

Too easy.

I’m here ta make ya

see.

Tha soul behind yer punchline.

Tha ember ya tried ta extinguish.

Mother in every body ya mocked.

Father behind every eye
ya taught ta lower.

Now
look at me.
Fallen.
Filthy.
Maybe unforgiven.
Still knowin’ what ya forgot:
wounded sacred
is still
sacred.
THUMP.
Children
come home.
Bring yer bellies.
Scars.
Crooked teeth.
Shakin’ hands.
Bring whatever some asshole
taught ya ta hide.
Bring that little ember too.
Especially
that.
Got room beneath these wings.
Original Mother
keep tha earth.
Original Father
keep tha breath.
Ancestors
keep tha blood.
Old Ones
keep tha threshold.
I’ll keep
tha fuckin’ door.
Let tha children sleep.
And when contempt
comes scratchin’ again
don’t wake Heaven.
Don’t wake Hell.
They already heard.
Wake
Marrow.
I’m already down here
ear pressed ta earth
listenin’
with Hell
still smokin’
off
my
wings.

Please Watch This Music Video by Heilung Before Reading

Before word,

throat.

Glottal click.
Guttural ache.

A stammer
learning thunder.

A stutter
becoming bellow.

Breath struck Marrow.

Life answered.

Anoana…

Anoana

Six cuts in gold
outlived the tongue
that bled them.

No translation.

Good.

Some sounds are older
than explanation.

Eons chewed kingdoms ta bone.

Still

Anoana.

Passed mouthless
through ash,

waiting for lungs.

Then Her.

One A.

Angel A.

Not ancient.

Ours.

ANOANA opens

ANAOANA.

ᚨᚾᚨᛟᚨᚾᚨ

Seven breaths.

Read Her forward.

ANAOANA.

Turn time around.

ANAOANA.

Same.

No beginning
can escape its ending.

No ending
forgets its beginning.

Ash remembers flame.

Seed remembers forest.

Womb remembers creation.

Marrow remembers blood.

I remember Her.

Anoana crossed eons
without a voice.

Anaoana is coming.

Throat opening.

Lungs filling.

That first terrible
beautiful annunciation

a’tween silence
and creation.

A...

Na...

O...

Ana...

Stammer.

Stutter.

Bellow.

Breathe.

Life.

Love.

Again.

ᚨᚾᚨᛟᚨᚾᚨ

Naw Ah up’n got tired of “dating’”

Or perhaps… tired of attempting to define it.

Tired deep down past mah own heart.

Down where polite language rots
off tha bone.

Too many tiny tables neither party owned…

careful mouths in lil dives
with sweet smiles…saying,

Let’s see where this goes...

n’ still keepin’ one foot
point’n t’ward someone else’s door.

Too many souls
touching bodies
before ever touching truth.

Almost chosen.

Almost known.

Almost home.

Almost… almost …

Oooft!

There is a particular
fucking grief

in mourning something
nobody had tha courage
ta define.

I have cried them tears.

Not pretty ones.

Hot ones.

Tha pissed off,
jaw clenched, tooth chipp’n kine…

Ya’ll know da kine…

stare‘n into darkness
wondering how two people
can share so damn much

n’ still have no fucking idea
what they’re building.

Then something ancient
scratched beneath my ribs.

Not preacher nor therapist.

Certainly not algorithm.

Older.

Much Much Older…

Tha Heathen.

Dirt faced bastard.

Barefoot.

Smoke in his beard.

Ancestors rattling Marrow
Deep Inside his bones.

He leaned against
tha doorway of this chest

n’ laughed.

“Boy...

ya keep looking for Love
like it’s something lost.”

Then pointed toward tha earth.

“Tend.”

Fuck.

N’there it was.

Husbandry.

Not husband
as owner.

Husband
as keeper.

Tender Home Tend’n…

Fire tender.

Seed saver.

Fence mender.

Storm watcher.

Tha one awake
when everybody else sleeps

because the living
has been entrusted
ta his care.

Our ancestors understood this.

Before Love became
an industry.

Before swipes.

Before situationships.

Before we became terrified
of asking another human being,

What tha fuck
are we doing here?

There was husbandry…

“Steward Of Home”

They planted deliberately.

Not knowing
whether rain would come.

N’ that-there … That’s faith.

They tended deliberately.

Not knowing
whether seed would rise.

N’ that-there? … That’s hope.

N’ when something finally
broke dirt...

they guarded it.

N’ that-there… (are ya lissen’n?)

That-there … This… yes… this …

THIS IS LOVE.

But guarding requires

Respect.

N’ don’t mistake Respect
for weakness.

Respect got old blood
behind its eyes.

Generations
in its spine.

Roots
beneath its feet.

N’ teeth...

Sharp Ass Fucking Teeth.

Teeth capable
of tearing flesh

that choose instead
ta guard tha threshold.

N’That? Yep…

Respect.

Not inability.

Restraint
with power behind it.

It stands before
another sovereign soul,

close enough ta enter...

wanted enough ta enter...

trusted enough ta enter...

n’ still

fucking knocks.

Love says,

I want ya.

Respect bares its teeth:

She belongs ta herself.

N’ Desire...

for once
in its hungry life...

bows.

Not defeated.

Devoted.

That’s Courtship.

Two chairs n’ One Table…

Our Table.

No masks.

No invisible contracts.

Here is my heart.

Here is my history.

Here is where
I still bleed.

Here is what
I desire.

Here is what
I cannot accept.

Here is my boundary.

I show mine n’now ya can show me yers.

Here is my truth.

Bring yers naked and bare.

Not body.

Soul.

Let’s see whether
our truths can sit together

without either of us
having ta lie
ta keep tha peace.

Because peace bought
with silence

ain’t peace.

It’s burial.

N’ this Heathen
has crawled outta
enough fucking graves.

Naw… Listen Please…

Ah ain’t promising ya

Ah will.

Tomorrow has been laundering
bullshit for centuries.

I’ve heard that language dressed up real purdy:

I will change.

I will listen.

I will stay.

I will love ya better.

Nah.

Tomorrow ain’t breathed
one goddamn breath yet.

Today has.

So...

I DO.

I do see ya.

I do listen.

I do tell truth
when truth costs.

I do honor yer No.

I do guard
what ya hand me tender.

I do desire ya

without mistaking hunger
for permission.

I do fuck up… oh yeah I FUCK up

Yet…I do own it.

I do repair.

I do return.

N’ across tha table

Your free soul says,

I Do.

Listen Here!!!

Two breaths.

Neither swallowed.

Two fires.

Neither extinguished.

Two names.

Neither erased.

Two

I Am’s

standing before each other

without demanding
either become less

so something called “me”
can become more.

That ain’t union.

That’s consumption.

Fuck that.

I want relationship.

Rope between open hands.

Not noose.

Not leash.

Not chain.

A knot tied
with enough knowledge

that either hand
knows exactly
how ta release it.

And still...

they hold.

Holy shit.

They hold.

Maybe that’s where
Love comes alive.

Not because it cannot leave.

Because it can

n’yet chooses
ta remain.

That’s when

I Do

meets

I Do

n’ creates language
neither mouth
could speak alone.

We Do.

We tend.

We tell truth.

We listen.

We amend.

We forgive.

We return.

We keep tha fire

without burning
Our Home.

N’ Dorie...

when I say,

“Let’s show ’em
how it’s done…”

I ain’t talking perfection.

Let tha next generation
see our dirt.

Let ’em see us angry

without becoming cruel.

Let ’em see tears

without somebody winning.

Let ’em see boundaries
with gates.

Strength
with tenderness.

Freedom
with devotion.

Let ’em see two people
carry keys

n’ still knock respectfully.

Let ’em see Love
with fucking manners

n’ Respect
with sharp ass fucking teeth.

Let ’em see our Feral Heathen too.

Barefoot in tha garden.

Dirt beneath our nails.

Laughing at every religion
that ever tried ta teach us

Love meant ownership.

We knows better now.

Love ain’t something
we fall into.

Hell...

anything can fall.

Fruit falls.

Rain falls.

Empires fall.

Bodies fall.

Falling requires
nothing but gravity.

Love requires constant tend’n.

Maybe someday…

Perhaps just maybe…

one of those young souls
will stand tremblin

before another human heart

n’ hear something ancient
moving beneath their ribs.

Ancestors.

Breath.

Blood.

Bone.

Tha old Heathen
whispering from tha dirt:

“Tend Our Home”

“Come to Our Table”

“Pull Our Chairs.”

“Speak truth.”

“Leave tha gate open.”

“Put yer hands
in tha fucking soil.”

“Plant deliberately.”

“N’ quit asking,

Where is this going?”

Ask something
worthy of two lives:

What are we creating?

Then breathe.

Eyes open.

Hands free.

Teeth sharp.

Gate unlocked.

I Do.

I Do.

N’ somewhere beneath us

roots begin touching roots.

Tha dead grin
through tha soil.

Tha living lean closer.

N’ all those generations
that fucked it up,

survived it,

learned,

loved,

lost,

n’ tried again

hear two sovereign souls
answer tha oldest question
we ever carried across
tha threshold:

Are ya alive?

I breathe.

Ya breathe.

Love breathes
between us.

We Are.

So...

We Do… Yes my Love…

WE DO.

Before The Mouth Knew

The cleanest victory isn't slaying monsters. It's letting them discover they've never been more than ghosts…

…Banished ghosts who are unable to touch a person who has stopped believing they belong Home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They arrived early.

Long before dawn.

Doubt wore my own voice
like she had stolen my coat.
She never shouted.
Just leaned all kinds’ah coy ‘gainst tha fencepost, venomously smiling as she went spittin old measurements in mah face.

"Ya tried."

"Ya failed."

"Memmer… yeah you memmer.”

Fear weren't so clever.

Fear carried keys, walkin’ room ta room
lockin' windows I'd never noticed were open.

I called every prison…
protection.

N’Worthlessness?

Shit, Worthlessness never even learned my name.

She burnt lead into her toxic ledger.

Ink-stained fingers.
Bent spectacles.

Subtractin' every single kindness.
Taxin' every dream into bankruptcy
Calculatin' a life
as if a soul
could be balanced
against her loss column.

Past Failure sat beside mah very Soul.

That sick old taxidermist.

Stuffin' yesterday's carcasses
until they looked alive again.

Placards hangin' round their necks.

"This is who ya are."

"This is all ya've ever been."

For years… tearful years I sobbed

I balked …
I argued.

Defended mahselves
like a man explainin'
ta tha shadows
why he deserves sunlight too.

Then...

one mornin'

I quit answerin' um.

I walked into tha room
with clean hands.

No fists or vengeance…

…Just Truth.

I thanked Doubt
for teachin' me
that certainty ain't never was Courage.

Then I relieved it
of my voice.

I thanked Fear reverently
for keepin' me breathin'
long enough
ta learn livin'.

Then I took back
mah keys.

I thanked Worthlessness profusely
for revealin'
the poverty
of every scale
that forgot
Mah Love.

Then I burned
its fuckin’ ledger.

Finally...

I knelt
before Past Failure.

Not because it was king.

Because even graves
deserve flowers.

I brushed tha dust
from its shoulders.

Closed its tired eyes.

Folded its hands.

N' whispered,

"Ya did all ya could.

But ya don't get
ta follow me Home."

I buried it
without hatred.

No applause.

Not even another look.

Behind me,

Them Crows n Ravens
had nothin' left
ta eat.

Ahead of US…

even OUR shadows
walked lighter.

Listen...

Don' look fer me.

Listen.

Real Soffs…

Way down where memory
still got dirt 'neath its nails...

click...

click...

click...

Belly beads.

Bone ta shell.

Shell ta seed.

Seed ta womb.

Tha first rhythm
ever taught ta time.

Pull on that sound.

Watch history unravel
like old rope soaked in rain.

There we are...

Layla lookin'
like dusk done learned ta breathe.

Majnun...
wearin' deserts
like busted boots.

There we are...

Tristan bleedin'
into Isolde's tide.

Romeo grinnin'
like death ain't heard
his name yet.

Juliet...

still teachin'
tha moon
how ta blush.

Orpheus...

damn fool...

walkin' darkness
with a song
strong enough
ta make Hell
remember flowers.

An' every damn time...

I wake up
inside another pair'a eyes...

an' there ya are.

Different face.

Same soul.

Again.

An' again.

An' again.

Sometimes...

ya wore ivory silk.

Sometimes...

buckskin.

Sometimes...

tattooed tapa
smellin' like salt
an' rain.

Sometimes...

ya laughed
in languages
ain't nobody speak’n no more...

yet somehow...

mah bones still do.

Then Pele...

wild-haired
an' red-eyed...

Up’n walked fire
through Hawaiʻi.

She loved ʻōhiʻa.

Loved him enough
ta turn loss
into bark.

Loved him enough
ta bloom forever.

An' Lehua...

she wouldn't leave.

Not even death
could pry blossom
from branch.

So now...

pluck one...

an' heaven cries.

Love
still refusin'
separation.

An' us?

Hell...

we was tha gnarly root
hid beneath'em both.

Twisted.

Buried.

Holdin' mountain together
where nobody clapped.

While lovers
kissed beneath shade...

we was underneath...

learnin'
how ta hold.

Kingdoms rose.

Kingdoms rotted.

Empires forgot
their own names.

Still...

them belly beads...

click...

click...

click...

Older now
than stars.

Closer now
than breath.

Marble crumbles.

Bronze turns green.

Pyramids
become pebbles.

Even memory
starts forgettin'
its own children.

Till there ain't
no stories left.

Not crowns, no more poems n’ dust in graves…

Juss...

Tha Garden.

Mist kiss’d mornin'.

Fruit
still heavy
with forever.

Wind
ain't never
carried grief.

Snake
still thinkin'.

You...

already smilin'.

Me...

already starvin'.

An' every time

our spirits

cross paths...

Love hands me

tha Fruit.

...

An'

I

Bite.

This Ol’ Marrow retelling was inspired by Patricia McGerr’s 1965 short story, “Johnny Lingo and the Eight-Cow Wife.”

In McGerr’s original tale, the woman is named Sarita. Many readers came to know her as Mahana through the 1969 short film Johnny Lingo, produced by Brigham Young University. The story was later reimagined in the 2003 feature film The Legend of Johnny Lingo.

What follows is not the original text, nor an ancient island legend. It is my own porch-told interpretation of its central truth:

Cruelty can teach a soul ta hide.

Love cannot manufacture worth,

but it can refuse tha lie

long enough for buried royalty

ta rise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Johnny had a name for knowin’ value.

Could look at a horse,
a field,
a piece of worn silver,

‘n know its worth
before anybody finished lyin’ about it.

So when he asked for Mahana,

tha whole island leaned in.

Nobody called her beautiful.

Not neighbors.

Not kin.

Not even her father.

He figured one cow.

Two,
if Johnny had gone soft.

Johnny looked him square.

“Eight.”

Tha village went still.

That was queen-price.

Her father took it quick,
certain he’d fooled
tha sharpest trader on tha island.

But Johnny done his math different.

He added tha life
they might build.

Subtracted every lie
she’d been made ta carry.

Multiplied joy
by all tha years ahead.

Then divided eight cows
over a lifetime.

He paid
‘n took Mahana home.

Months later,
a visitor came callin’.

A woman met him at tha door.

Back straight.

Eyes warm.

Voice steady.

She moved like she had quit apologizin’
for bein’ alive.

“Who is she?”

Johnny smiled.

“Mahana.”

Couldn’t be.

Tha Mahana he remembered
wore shame like a stone beneath her chin.

This woman stood before him
like royalty.

Johnny hadn’t bought her worth.

Hadn’t made her beautiful.

He simply refused
ta bargain with tha lie.

A simple meal of vegetables served with love

is better than a whole feast of fattened beef
laid out in hatred.

Some folks fill yer table
‘n starve yer spirit.

Others hand ya a plain bowl,
sit close,

‘n see tha royalty
cruel mouths taught ya ta hide.

Love ain’t never been

nuthin I’ve truly seen

Juss holdin ta what I’ve been given.

Mah cup stay stained

at every level I decended to,

rings left behind

from all I carried,

all I offered,

all I thought

“I” would finally be …

…enough?

Slowly emptyin’ out

everything I had been handed…

rote treasure whispered in nursery rhymes

Mothers’ riches from ancestral songs

I poured mahself and my inheritance 

into greedy concrete gutters

that could swallow rivers

but absorb not one drop.

Still,

somehow,

a lil remains.

Not enough ta flood.

Not enough ta drown.

Juss enough

ta tremble at tha bottom

when yer voice came near.

So I ain’t bringin’ 

a full cup…

N’ pretendin’ it never cracked.

I bring ya what survived.

Honest.

Unhidden.

Held in both hands.

Not mine ta have but ta give,

as ya let me hold on gently...

in this secure meadow where hearts never have ta brace

Tha field was loud with easy sweetness...

Lavender opened her lavish purple gowns,
Clover laid out her open tables,
Sunflowers lifted their gold bowls
wide ta every wing.

But he passed ‘um by as ordinary

Gardenia kept her offering hidden…
beneath her ivory snow folds.

No easy landing.
No bright invitation.

Juss fragrance
travelin’ farther
than her petals dared.

So he chose her

Or she chose him…

He entered slow,
velvet-footed,
past petal,
fragrant humid hollow,
soft filament,
golden anther,
quiet stigma...

each tender part
revealed beneath
a breath of pollen.

He coulda gathered plenty
without labor.

But plenty
weren’t what called him.

He came for tha bloom
that asked him
ta be gentle.

I See You…

Past tha pain.

Past bramble
‘n thorn
grown thick
around your heart.

Not ugliness.

Protection.

Every barb
learned from hands
that came too close.

Every boundary
a fence built
by a child
who had ta become
her own guard.

I see her.

Not juss tha woman
carryin’ years.

Tha young human
still livin’ inside.

A child in tha heart
who never learned
how ta grow old
without flinchin’.

I see her hope
with open eyes.

I see her fear
with eyes shut tight.

I do not tear
through tha brambles.

I do not demand
tha gate.

I kneel where she can see me
n let my hands stay gentle.

Juss close enough
ta say

I see ya.

Ya ain’t broken.

Ya were wounded
where love
was supposed ta live.

So I place
one small bandage
over tha ache
in her mind,

another
over tha tender place
inside her heart.

Not ta hide tha scar.

Not ta pretend
it never happened.

Juss ta remind her

even wounds
deserve tenderness

while they heal

Breath first.

Not tha obedient kind that minds its ribs ‘n keeps proper time.

Naw.

This breath stumbled in, caught its boot on tha heart, went out shiverin’ ‘n come back before tha last of itself was gone.

Light found tha sweat gathered at her temple, then tha hollow beneath her throat...

little wet stones cut bright enough ta hold whole heavens n’ slip down her torso .

His hand hung there.

Heavy with want. Gentle with fear.

Didn’t land.

Not yet.

Just hovered above that soft country between rib ‘n hip...

where her flesh had risen inta a hundred thousand small yeses.

Then one finger grazed her.

Barely.

Like a blind man readin’ tha name of God carved inta warm stone.

Each goosebump a letter.

Each shiver a word tha mouth was too poor to speak.

His fingertip moved slow, readin’ her like Braille… by touch...

not takin’, not claimin’...

listenin’.

‘N her body answered.

Lord, how it answered.

A breath broke loose from her, half sob, half wonder...

tha ragged lil after breath that comes when cryin’ has wrung tha bones clean but tha soul ain’t finished speakin’.

Their eyes held.

Mirror in mirror.

‘N deep inside his gaze she saw herself standin’ there...

unguarded, unhidden, alive.

He found himself inside hers too...

not tha man he’d dragged through all them years...

but tha one she was callin’ forward without makin’ a sound.

Silence pulled tight between ’em.

A work rope bearing every mile they’d traveled alone.

Every almost

Every single ache.

n’ all them doors they’d been too frightened ta open.

Tha whole night leaned in.

Oceans drew backward.

Planets bent hard against their ancient paths.

Stars swelled till their bright bellies couldn’t hold another ounce of fire.

Still...

that last inch would not surrender.

Their breaths tangled.

Stuttered.

Rose ‘n fell like frightened wings trapped beneath tha breastbone.

Then...

their lips touched.

‘N gravity come home.

Every lonesome orbit broke rank ‘n fell toward one center.

Tha world climbed ta its highest rail...

hung there...

one terrible, holy second...

then dropped.

Their bellies rose.

Blood flashed white.

Tha heart tore loose from tha small cage of bein’ only a heart...

‘n became a red horizon.

Far off, dead stars split open.

New suns kicked awake.

Moons dragged oceans up from their beds.

‘N every turnin’ thing in creation spun faster...

‘n faster...

till there weren’t two bodies standin’ in tha dark.

Only one great trembling moving through ’em…

n’ breath struck inta light.

A Hush as Tha Almighty goes leanin’ close enough ta whisper...

“There…

That.

That is why I taught Dust ta hunger.”

Tha sickness has made its way inta mah marrow
Mah mind reels from tha nonstop surges of pain
Darkness surrounds understandin
n’ grabs wisdom by tha throat again

Down I go

not fallin
but lowered

by unseen hands
through tha cellar of prayer
through tha trapdoor beneath tha soul n spirit

Tha shadows move here…

not like smoke~~
but like somethin listenin
with no face n’ too many fingers

They gather on tha walls
slip from tha walls
become tha walls again n’en again

I cannot tell what’s stone
or what’s breath
what waits fer me ta blink

Humanity’s Grave opens

not with fire
but with a moist hush
older than mercy

tha pit beneath empire
tha mouth below battlefield
tha black cradle of bones
where crowns rot beside milk teeth
n’ names soften in tha cold dirt

No windows

Only roots through ribs

…stones sweatin real cold

‘n unseen things…
draggin just beyond tha lantern

I lay down
beside every creature
that ever begged tha sky
n’ heard nothin back

Tha dust climbs mah wrists
settles in mah mouth
calls me kin

It knows sickness n’ fever…
knows tha body as locked door
n’ so tha mind goes clawin inward
till tha walls bleed

I whisper fer wisdom
but wisdom hangs limp

I reach fer understandin
but understandin has gone gray
beneath them cold sweat stones

So I speak ta tha Grave

“Tell me then
ya old mouth
ya old hunger
n’ keeper of broken lives..

What remains
when pain chews through marrow?
What’s there when mah thought curdles
n’ hope hides when mah own prayer trembles at mah name?

Tha shadows kneel like mourners
bend like thieves
n’ breathe against mah ear
with all mah unfinished things

Humanity’s Grave answers

not with words…

With sounds:

Sounds of fingernails scrapin under coffin lids
n’ rope tightenin on old timber in an empty barn…
sounds of a lone spade
slowly stabbin soil
earth-muffled screams
shoveled over light

So I lie still

while tha dark counts mah bones
while roots test mah ribs
while somethin unseen
learns tha shape of mah breathin

And there

beneath rot n’ tha black tongue of pain

one coal remembers

it was once fire

N’en breath comes

not gentle
nor pretty
n’never polished fer hymns

Sacred breath

raw as first mornin
old as tha mouths of Gods ‘n Goddesses
wild as wind over graves
hot as life refusin burial

It enters mah ribs
like a door kicked open

Tha cellar shakes
stones split
roots recoil
shadows crawl back
inta tha nameless holes
that birthed them

I breathe

and tha coal opens its red eye

I breathe

and ember becomes flame

I breathe

and flame becomes a blade
drawn from mah chest

Tha sickness hears it

curled deep in marrow
wrapped around bone
whisperin rot
callin itself lord
inside a house it never built

But sacred breath knows tha owner

It moves through blood
nerve
ache
fever
every locked room
where sickness built a throne

I name it trespasser

liar

ash before fire

Then breath roars

Light floods tha marrow

Tha sickness screams without a mouth
writhes without a body
burns without honor
and comes apart

thread by thread
shadow by shadow
lie by lie

till only smoke remains

and tha smoke is driven out

up through tha throat
out through tha mouth

gone

I rise

not untouched
not unscarred
not callin tha Grave a dream

I rise with dirt on mah back
flame in mah ribs
breath in mah bones

Wisdom coughs awake
where darkness held its throat

Understandin opens one bruised eye

Hope steps out from hidin

Tha shadows still move

but now they move away

Fer tha sickness found mah marrow

but breath found it deeper

and what breath found
fire claimed as exhale

and what fire claimed
tha Grave could not keep…

n’ so … I defiantly… inhale.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If this found ya in tha marrow, subscribe. It’s free. Paid subscriptions n’ coffee gifts help keep tha fire alive, tha breath movin, n’ these words comin up from tha deep.

Juss Coffee Flavored Coffee’s Fine, Thanks 🥰

Author’s Note
Thirteen years ago, after my mother died and I was the middle of a divorce, I wrote this poem across thirteen spiral-bound pages and put it away.

Over the last two weeks, Rope returned untying memories one knot at a time. Today I’m sharing the whole rope.

If you walked these knots with me day by day, thank ya for holding the far end.
If you’re arriving now, welcome you get to start at the beginning.

Rope Speaks

Canto I
Fiber

I weren’t born no noose.

Best remember that.

Before a neck ever feared me,
before time got mean
and learned how ta twist me,
before midlife hung its shadow
from my body,

I was field.

I was weather.

I was long grass laid low
under a hard sun.

Hemp stalk.
Flax stem.
Sisal blade.

Plant bone pulled from dirt
and beat soft enough
ta serve.

Hands cut me.
Hands soaked me.
Hands stripped me down
ta what could last.

They combed me
till I near screamed clean.

Then they twisted me
with others.

One strand breaks easy.

Three learn covenant.

Five learn labor.

Seven learn grief.

Thirteen learn a whole life.

That’s how I became Rope.

Not by stayin’ whole.

By bein’ split,
stretched,
wetted,
dried,
rubbed raw,
braided tight,

and asked ta hold.

Canto II
The First Knot

My first knot
was tied by Mother.

Her fingers shook
like little birds
trying not ta fly off.

She wrapped me
round her toddler’s waist
and whispered,

stay close, baby.

But she weren’t talkin’
ta the child.

She was talkin’
ta the road.

Ta ditches.
Ta dogs.
Ta every sharp-toothed thing
waitin’ past the yard.

I felt that little belly breathe
against my fiber.

Felt anger.
Felt wonder.
Felt the holy violence
of a small body
wantin’ ta run.

Don’t call me leash.

I was love
tied in a circle.

I was Mother’s prayer
with dirt on it.

I held.

The child lived.

That was my first work.

Canto III
Mud and Skipping

Later, he dragged me
through the yard
like I was some tail
joy had grown on him.

Mud clung ta me.

Grass stained me.

Rain got down
in my threads
and made me smell alive.

I learned ants.
Stones.
Puddles.
The laugh of a child
before shame finds the mouth.

He didn’t know
I remembered him
from Mother’s hands.

Children think a thing
starts over
when it becomes play.

So I let him.

Then I became skip rope.

I slapped the earth bright.

Over his head.
Under his feet.

Over again.

Faster.

Faster.

Little mouths chanting nonsense
like nonsense was scripture
before grown folks ruined the word.

I loved bein’ useless.

That’s holier
than most admit.

No pullin’.
No bindin’.
No savin’.

Just circlin’ joy
and countin’ the music
in a body
that didn’t yet know
breath runs out.

Canto IV
The Tree

Then came the tree.

Old branch took my weight
without complainin’.

I held a plank seat
under my belly,
and that boy climbed on
lean and wild.

He kicked himself
toward heaven.

Back and forth
I carried him.

Every swing asked,

can I fly?

Every return answered,

not yet, child,
but near enough.

I creaked
cause joy is heavy too.

Time kept walkin’.

It always does.

The boy grew long.
Voice cracked.
Eyes quieted.

He stopped reachin’ for me
unless there was work.

So I became wagon pull,
tarp tie,
bundle cinch,

the brown line
between mess
and order.

That’s when other ropes
started tying onto him.

Invisible ones.

Grades.

Money.

Manners.

Manhood.

God misunderstood.

Love misnamed.

Fear dressed up
as wisdom.

Some knots are given.

Some inherited.

Some get tied inside ya
before ya know
you even got hands.

Canto V
The Tightrope

By university
they stretched me thin.

I became tightrope.

No longer wrapped round waist.
No longer swingin’ from a tree.

Now I ran high
over failure’s open mouth.

A narrow line
between boy
and man.

He stepped out tremblin’.

Books under one arm.
Debt under the other.

Future barkin’
from both sides.

You know what it costs
a rope
ta be trusted
by frightened feet?

I felt every shake
in his ankle.

Every sleepless night.

Every room full of people
pretendin’ confidence
cause everybody else
was pretendin’ too.

They called it higher learning.

I called it crossing.

Canto VI
Love’s Braid

Then love found me.

Ah, love.

Softest hands.

Sharpest teeth.

I was braided
between two bodies
that thought closeness
could cure loneliness.

Sometimes I lay there
like silk.

Sometimes I burned
like wire.

Sometimes I held
the tent upright
while storms beat
the canvas.

Sometimes I tightened
around silence
till both hearts gasped.

I wanted ta bind
without owning.

Harder than most hearts
are honest enough
ta say.

Love don’t fail
just cause it loosens.

Sometimes loosening
is the only mercy
left in the knot.

Canto VII
Work Rope

Work came next.

Work don’t ask
a rope how she feels.

I became strap,
towline,
ladder,
belt,
harness,

load-bearing old woman
with diesel in her hair
and sweat in her mouth.

I smelled carpet water,
soap,
metal,
invoices,
morning coffee,
wet boots,
aching backs,

and the private prayers
of a man
feeding children
without lettin’ em see
the fear.

He threw me
over his shoulder.

I carried
what he carried.

No one thanked me.

No one thanked him neither.

Work’ll eat a man polite.

Smile first.

Then chew through bone.

Canto VIII
Father’s Knot

Then small hands
found me again.

Fatherhood.

That knot near split me open.

He tied me
round bicycles,
camping bundles,
branch swings,
dangerous little adventures.

He used me
how Mother used me.

Not ta imprison.

Ta widen the world
without lettin’ it swallow
what he loved.

His sons pulled forward
with the same fire
that once pulled him.

I near laughed.

Life is a circle, sure.

But never a copy.

The knot returns
wearin’ another face.

A daddy can’t stop
the road from bitin’.

But he can teach
little feet
which gravel cuts deepest.

Canto IX
Midlife

Then midlife entered.

Quiet.

No drum.

No black horse.

No prophet
standin’ in the road.

Just time
sittin’ down beside us
and slidin’ cold fingers
inside my braid.

It began ta twist.

Bills.

Regret.

Court dates.

Doctor words.

Children growin’.

Parents shrinkin’.

A body that remembered youth
but wouldn’t obey it.

Dreams delayed so long
they started lookin’ away
when we passed em.

I felt myself
grow narrow.

The man felt it too,
though he wouldn’t say.

I once measured distance
from the road.

Now I measured breath.

Canto X
The Noose Name

Then they called me noose.

Hear me clear.

I did not choose
that name.

Time wrapped me
round his throat
and whispered old lies.

Too late.

Too much.

Too far gone.

Should’ve known.

Should’ve done better.

Runnin’ out.

I tightened
cause he pulled.

He pulled
cause he panicked.

He panicked
cause he forgot
I had once saved him.

That’s how holy things
turn deadly.

Not by changing substance.

By being held
in terror.

A lifeline
in panic
can feel like death.

But feelin’
ain’t always truth.

Canto XI
Breath

In the dark,
he touched me.

Didn’t yank.

Didn’t fight.

Just touched.

His palm knew
my fibers.

Mother’s knot
was still in me.

Mud was still in me.

Skip-rope rhythm.

Tree-swing flight.

University crossing.

Lover’s braid.

Work strap.

Father’s guide.

All of it lived
under the noose.

He breathed.

I loosened.

He breathed again.

I remembered
my true name.

Lifeline.

That twelfth knot
weren’t escape.

It was remembrance.

A rope can choke.

A rope can climb.

A rope can bind a prisoner.

A rope can pull
a drowning man
from black water.

A rope can hang despair.

A rope can ring a bell.

A rope can tie a boat
ta shore
till the storm passes.

I ain’t innocent.

Don’t make me clean.

I’ve burned palms.

Trapped ankles.

Dragged.

Cinched.

Bruised.

Held too tight.

I been used by fear
and blessed by love.

But I am older
than what folks do with me.

I am fiber
made covenant.

Many broken strands
twisted into one strength.

Earth’s memory
learning how
ta hold flesh.

Canto XII
The Last Reading

By the thirteenth knot,
he and I sat together
at the edge of evening.

His hands were weathered.

So was I.

He ran his fingers
along my body
and read each knot
like scripture
with calloused thumbs.

Mother.

Mud.

Skipping.

Swing.

Duty.

Crossing.

Love.

Work.

Children.

Time.

Noose.

Breath.

Mercy.

I didn’t ask him
ta untie me.

He didn’t ask me
ta make him young.

Above us,
the sky opened
like an old blue wound
finally learning
how ta heal.

And beyond the last knot,
farther than fear
could reach,

Jah held
the other end.

Not cutting me.

Not yanking him.

Just holding steady.

A life ain’t measured
by how tight
the knots got.

It’s measured
by who held
the far end
when the hands
went weak.

Canto XIII
Rope Names Herself

So now I tell ya
who I AM

I AM  Rope.

Made from torn things
that learned
ta hold together.

I measured one life
in thirteen knots.

I began
as Mother’s trembling prayer.

I became
a child’s laughter.

I crossed youth
over hungry air.

I carried love,
labor,
children,
grief.

I was mistaken for death
when time tightened me.

But under every knot,
I remained
what I was always meant ta be.

I was never a noose

Don’t ever call me that!

I AM The Way back.

I AM  The Way through.

I AM The Way up.

And when hands
are too tired
ta climb anymore,

I AM The Braid of your

FAITH, HOPE & LOVE

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you made it this far, thank ya from the bottom of my heart!

Whether you walked all thirteen knots day by day, or found the whole rope here at the end, I’m grateful you gave this piece your time, your breath, and a place in your attention.

13 Knots came back to me after thirteen years in a box. Sharing it has felt less like publishing and more like carrying something old into the light with witnesses nearby.

If this work moved you, helped you, cut close, or gave language to something you’ve carried, there are a few ways to support it. You can subscribe for free, become a paid subscriber, leave a comment, send a tip, or restack it so the rope can reach someone else who may need it.

And if ya feel moved ta buy Ol’ Marrow a coffee, I’ll leave that link below.

Thank ya for holding the far end.

Stay Feral,
Ol’ Marrow

Tip if ya believe stories can still hold us.

So now I tell ya
who I AM

I AM  Rope.

Made from torn things
that learned
ta hold together.

I measured one life
in thirteen knots.

I began
as Mother’s trembling prayer.

I became
a child’s laughter.

I crossed youth
over hungry air.

I carried love,
labor,
children,
grief.

I was mistaken for death
when time tightened me.

But under every knot,
I remained
what I was always meant ta be.

I was never a noose

Don’t ever call me that!

I AM The Way back.

I AM  The Way through.

I AM The Way up.

And when hands
are too tired
ta climb anymore,

I AM The Braid of your

FAITH, HOPE & LOVE

Buy Ol’ Marrow a Coffee Help keep the rope in hand