Inspiring Enchantment & Illumination with Tarot & Intuitive Guidance

Sunday Poetry

I meet with so many women, sometimes men, but mostly women, who are suffering in painful, heartbreaking relationships. Often I see them watching their other dreams for themselves turn to ashes because they are so distraught with trying to salvage or forget their lost love.

Guerneville Girls
by Anne Hill © 1990

If these were my own kids I’d slap
them silly, and when they came to

me again with putty in their hair,

or quiet walking, fingering a note of

ownership from some boy with the right

shoes, I’d send the wind down at them

first, unglue the stars and decorations

in the gym, throw out the desks and

tables and start delivering babies

there, on the floor. The mothers will

be the kind who curse and rant and

swear to God that man won’t lay another

finger on them, look what he did to

me that bastard, and where is he now?

The girls will unlace their shoes and

slip quickly behind my back to the

river, where they will not be able

to resist the urge to throw off their

slim jeans and wade, murky, to where

the river becomes real, and a threat,

and they will learn to swim against

it as though strength were a good

thing. Then the moon could draw

down into their bellies and meet no

resistance, sliding on through to where

muddy feet stand gripping the banks

of wideness, silt and foam, and

the white track across the water would

be more than chalk on an empty board.

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