She’s the Biggest Mama, the one I only go to when things are serious. This is what happened when I petitioned her on behalf of a friend:
29 May 2018
Gr’Mere Will See You Through
The mirror at the far end of the corridor shines like the Moon.
You’ve waited much too long to know there’s one like you who knows the tune
through all its changes, and will hold his end up till his final breath.
And—you also know—that this might happen only after death.
So—you walk accordingly, and dance, one hand out; mind your pace.
There’s a little riddle hidden deep inside this magic place
where you are both desired and feared—but love will win if love is brought
to meet itself with nothing standing in between but breaths so fraught,
the two who make them last by making song of every hint and sound,
hearing in between the moments we alone can find—have found—
an hour ago, and cannot cease to hear through all the night to come—
as clearly this presentiment is wise as I was once dead numb—
I wore my scarf around my throat to keep it warm and pliant, and
I stood inside the river, praying, Please Gr’mere—our house of sand
is threatened by the doubt that makes love never want to build to last.
I am standing in a current, holding on, but failing fast.
The tortured woman still awaits my gaze—the one who drowned and sank.
Whenever she takes in her hand my hand, I walk the brittle bank
that falls away beneath my feet, and then I feel her drowning clutch.
The mirror at the end shines like the Moon, but lacks all human touch:
I send to you through tears and rain the promise of my own Gr’mere:
You cannot lie unhallowed; you have sought the love of very air,
and found within it strength of purpose. We who hear you know your name,
image, and intensely told and written story. Find the fame
that seemed to be a curse within your telling of your hour of loss.
Lean toward the one who sings but very softly here across
the future from the days as were: You might still remember her.
She’s the one who sang to you—and found you where it’s all a blur
by waking day, but closely held in moments when dear dreams begin
to illustrate the images that fill the space where lovers win
their quarrels with their dearest one and dance at last with ribbons on—
She’s looking at you, bright as song itself—She says—Fear, get you gone.