September through May in Exile
(incantations from winter)
September
For the last time,
I am shaking with indignation
with wounded pride and hatred for the wound.
I was not supposed to be this proud.
Who makes these rules anyway?
For the stranded singers I am a voice.
For the Bodiless I am an incarnation.
I am angry at the fact of use,
the one thing I cannot prevent and cannot subdue.
October
There was a question today on the wind
one I answered. And threw my pack into the river.
November
Rubbing my hands, and asking,
how does it feel, Ivy, to be dead?
How did it feel to die?
December
I am blamed for my contents,
for what I hold. A jug is responsible
for the coolness of the water inside.
I don't want to hold any more.
Let the singers find other voices, other bodies.
I want to know what it is like to hold just myself.
February
Try in ten words to tell me a reason.
I find the shape of words to be too rugged.
I am working in something smoother.
March
Where I once had arms I now have wings.
I wonder about the reason and worry about where my hands have gone.
May
I am sending back this letter and these poems from my exile. I only wanted you to know how I felt, how you touched me; but along the way, it turned into something different. Time has changed things, and I've found that the old pain has vanished to be replaced by lonliness. It's difficult, having no one else in my head to talk to. There are large empty spaces I've never noticed before, and I miss the children calling out when it was dusk, wanting a story. I am cured, but I'm not sure now if I want to be, and I find myself longing to return. I was one of many, and now am one, and I cannot return to the only family I know. I cannot come back to you, my secrets, my schemers. I can only wish you well, hope you are happy, and tell you I love you.
Love,Ariane
1994