Bewilderness

Be.
That’s the beginning.
Benign, benediction, best of times.
Always being now.
Here.

Wild.
This is when the wacky comes.
Wonder. Wander. Waste time.
Never knowing what or
When.

Wilder.
Those laughing bears in the water.
So much salmon. Rocks. Paws.
The full belly of more than
Enough.

Wilderness.
The country we all came from.
Immigrant. Grief. Motherland.
Wanting always to go
Back.

Be wild.
Like a naked toddler dancing.
Like a star exploding.
Like the phenomenon you
Are.

Be wilder.
Go beyond the border of space.
Jump over the fence of time.
Middle finger to the maker of all
Lines.

Be wilderness.
Begin again for real – it’s fine.
Forgiveness was never necessary.
We were made here, to live, to
Shine.

Hands

i.

That soft palm, always more delicate than the back of it
despite all it does, the warm way it meets the other inside,
coming together in prayer and worry, and the fingers, so
independent, yet working in harmony, how much we can
learn from them, and each fingertip, so sensitive, pointing
the way to a new place or beckoning someone over or in –
a painting of closeness on a miniature canvas of skin.

ii.

Soft light falls into my hands
The sun is welcome there
I welcome it like that moment
When rain stops suddenly
Dry air an unexpected gift
Even though it is always there
And I remember once again
As I always seem to have to do
That light and air and breath
And life are endless gifts
Waiting for me to open them.

iii.

My hands are ready to catch hope.
It will come on a sunbeam of dust.
The dust is what allows vision.
We are all here for a reason.
It’s not what you think.
Sometimes all is frustration.
This is because you cannot see.
It’s hard when your eyes are closed.
You must decide to open them.
Only opened eyes can see hope.
It comes on sunbeams of dust.

Surfing Lessons

for Joy Harjo

Call it what you want to call it, time,
or memory, or the soft swirl of pine
straw in that basket there that takes
you back to your breath coming late
and sharp when you can no longer
wait for him, or her, or them, or stronger
things to come and rescue you, and you
backwards step, sideways slip, move
however you can through the groove
of space you are taking with limbs
and digits and organs until you swim
with what wasn’t meant to last
as it careens over like ocean trash
and you keep on breathing, step,
slip, swim, pass him her them, wet
like babies just born and wailing with
hunger and jealousy, excuses for failing
as you rise with the tide beyond need
into strange dream and soft destiny.

Cassie Premo Steele is a lesbian, ecofeminist, mother, poet, novelist, and essayist whose writing focuses on trauma, healing, creativity, mindfulness and the environment. She holds a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature and Women's, Gender and Sexuality Studies from Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia. She has 6 books of poetry, and her poetry has been nominated 6 times for the Pushcart Prize. She has been awarded the John Edward Johnson Prize, the Carrie McCray Literary Award, and the Archibald Rutledge Prize named after the first Poet Laureate of South Carolina, where she lives with her wife.