a poem by Anya Light
I remember the body-less time.
The time before arms and legs.
It was a time before wonder—
because everything was wonder.
Everything was peace.
p
p
I remember the body-less time.
Carved into bone,
this memory.
Any end of the cosmos was mine
in a wink or a blink.
…Maybe this
at least partially explains
my sorrow
at needing a car
or filling a wallet with dollars
p
I am the quiet
the end of your quiet day
I am the noisy
the end of your noisy day
I am the noisy
I am the quiet
The end of your day
p
In morning
She rises
To the sound of water
In evening
Her repose
Is the clear light of day
(and
always always
the innumerable Hum:
of
I AM
flooding her brain)
One morning, though,
there will be no rising…
One morning, though,
No clear light of day.
One morning
One morning
Her children will instantly (somehow) know:
Ah, she has dropped the body.
Ah, the butterfly soul!
Oh dear sweet mother,
how long are your days with us?
Oh dear sweet Amma,
how long can your hands hold?
