by Odette Nightsky
A Note on Erosion
A pill everyday: for half a decade, for a dormant pain.
Every paper-white kernel a promise to stay out of the sun.
But I wanted to climb mountains—my doctor said maybe,
counting each little pill. My body was the same as it had been
for years—a mass of tender misguided tissue, threatening
to self-destruct—thus the swelling in my ankles, the rabbit
heart in my chest, the pills lined up like teeth on the table.
Looking out the window, I imagined the sun could chip away
at my skin, unveiling a pillar of sand. But many bodies
crumble with time, I’m told; over decades, even mountains
may erode in the silent violence of footsteps, each sole
upon the trail a tiny kiss of death. The doctor pressed
her fingers to my ankle, felt the swell of my fear with one
touch; elsewhere the sun had broken over the earth, spilling
light upon every crumbling mountain. What could be done
for the world’s numbered days? I wanted to kneel outside
on the lawn, press my hands upon the grass, and feel
for the answer. I wanted to be well. I wanted to be
on an outdoor trail, saying goodbye and hello to all
the kind strangers, and to the mountain’s rabbit heart
rumbling under my feet. I could tread gently, given
the chance. I’d tiptoe along the trail, leaving little
to no trace: my ailing feet as kind as moonlight
and lighter than morning rain.
A Body is a Mountain
dear body, breath-starved
and burning up on the beaten
path to the summit, let me
remind you where you began:
your tiny hands clasping
a compass and your father
over your shoulder, tracing
river routes and ridge lines
on a time worn map.
there will come a time
when the pain comes to pass,
when all the stones in the river
become soft and lush
with moss, and the leaves
bruising the forest floor
give way to a boundless blue.
but until then imagine
being at peace, knowing
what you know: that your bones
may someday snap beneath
the dawn’s thousand hands,
that the ash and aster
mountain of you
will stay alive until it won’t.
don’t be afraid, dear body.
imagine one day
this could be enough:
these knots of tender
muscle, these fists full
of loose grass—all these
fevered hours that come
and go, right before love.
Gita Labrador studied Comparative Literature at the University of the Philippines Diliman. Her work can be found in The Brown Orient, Glass, and Scum Mag. She resides in Quezon City, teaching reading and creative writing classes for children.
Odette Nightsky. Shamanic Counsellor, Author, Educator. www.contemporaryshaman.net