Love at First Sight*

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“There will always be words,”
said the little girl to the little boy.
“So…let’s write them!”

The little boy looked at her.
His face was the color of the sun,
and his eyes knew more
than his height would allow.

The little boy looked at her.
“Will you, too, share the moon?” he asked,
blinking. His fingers, shaking.

 

Together, they fell into a rapture.
Together they fell.
They remembered in an instant,      beyond
what their childhood brains could know…

They remembered the swamps, the forests,
the many many islands,
and all the deserts and the hells.
But most of all:
They remembered
every key
that could, or could not, be unlocked.
They remembered it all.

They kissed.
They kissed.

Their mouths fit!

And they called sweetly to the moon, then,
their voices in unison:
“Please, gentle mother,
please be our guide.”

 

And so she did.
(How could she not?) It was love, love at first sight.
It was the thing they’d read about, later,
as adults. It was the thing they’d always know.
The lightning and the jolt. The grasses and the green.
The day, and how it always begun.

They fell,
together:
and it was the moment when all the ends worked out.
When the woman in the well began to swim,
and the man in the high priestly collar
began to bend.

It was that moment.
That moment
Of seed,
That moment of miracle:

That moment

When the planting
Could truly begin.

 

 

*Dedicated to B, and all our many past and future lives together. 

 


 

If you enjoyed this poem, you might also enjoy Anya’s book, Opening Love.
Or, for a closer encounter, contact Anya today to schedule a spiritual guidance or relationship coaching session via phone or Skype.

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As if it were New

souls

I came into this body to love you.

…Do you remember?

The mirror was blank,

so we could not see our face.

We did not like this.

Our fingers: they were of air,

so we could not touch.

We did not like this.

And so,

Gradually

Gradually

The perfect incantation

came; the perfect song.

It was a way forward for us,    into limb

and bone.

We began by singing it together—

and then, by the end, you were the one singing,

and I was humming along.

We came into these bodies. Separate countries.

We came into these lives.

We thought it would be sweet,

So sweet, to meet:

To say Hello, again,

As if it were new.


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I Have Cherished These Days

Making love to my lover is a salty breath of ocean. It is a bountiful wave of sea.

Our lovemaking, it reminds me of an important fact: any “my” we may use for convenience of speech is really a game, a human-made illusion. For I do not own him or possess him and he does not own or possess me. He is not my partner, not my lover…not really. He’s wave; I’m shore. I’m shore; he’s wave. We come together, for a time.

water-lily-lotus-flowers-plants-725x544Making love to my lover, I watch stars burst and flower—first, white round orbs, stable and solid—and then they vibrate madly, changing from red to green to violet, then melting back to white again. Vibrating madly, crashing out behind my eyes—bombarding my full body with their delicious flares, ricocheting against my lover, too. These stars came with us. Where we came from: which is not so far.

Living with my lover: it’s like a pause. Coming home, embracing him.

Remembrances: what we used to know continually, before we decided bodies. Back before there was time. Siempre. Living with my lover. There are moments when he’s washing a dish or kissing my wrist when his eyes and my eyes see it. We see. There is no name and yet every name. We are a tribe, a family, something deeper than… yes, I am trying language here, pulling at concepts and grasping at archetypes…but what does naming really do? If I voice such rough approximations, do I not (subtly) declare that I am not—also—that? That I am not also what he is? That we are not what we are? The truth is: There are moments not made for human words, moments where, for this writer, all I have is sand for roses. Damned gorgeous, yes—but insufficient!

What we need: to plant dark wet soil. What we need is the bloom of silence: automatic. Behind all words and attempts to know. Given.

Finally, in the list of our lives together: Loving my lover needs patience. His gaze is a portal for locked-away snakes. Growing together, we’ve been the rose in winter, been the birth of sky in summer. I cannot now nor will ever quantify. We feel immaculate and also stubborn. Both heart-wrenching, while deliciously free. Through his abiding presence, the making of time and direction (north, south, east, west, wherever), and what games we can spin of these. There can never be opposites.

Understanding the impossible, finally,
I have come to rest.

 

Like this? Awesome. You might also like Opening Love, a compassionate guidebook through the challenges and ecstasies of polyamorous relationships.

Reincarnation is Real

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Our first kiss came, and then a week or two later we made love. The air was July, thick with campfire smoke and dandelion. He came to my apartment. It was afternoon.

This is our story.

♥♥

The sweat of our bodies, already present when he knocks on my door, intensifies. Mingles. I had only recently learned from him not to fear that. This time, the air conditioning stays off.

His soft, long brown hair, no longer parted down the middle but whisked into stormy waves upon my face, neck, chest. A pillow holds my thrashing head. His lips, finding every…single…place. Gently yet commandingly he lowers his body, full, against mine. His form is heavy, solid. Masculine indeed. His lips. His sweet lips. Slowly, he raises his head, his face parallel to mine, hovering over, a few inches away.

Bedroom blinds are drawn, yet there’s enough light to sense the expression in his eyes.

He smiles, and it’s such a curious smile. I know it’s time to say something…because there’s suddenly a bubbling feeling—a heart that is growing hotter, a flame that is rising to some strange end. Without knowing what the words mean and in one breathless burst I say I’ve known you before! My voice sounds strange—deep and husky; it doesn’t sound like mine. His eyes which were so wide open now melt a bit and his smile broadens. Lover pulls his torso upward, legs now straddling my hips. He inhales deeply and speaks. At least, this time, you don’t have to watch me die.

Everything goes black.

I have no choice at this moment but to allow his words. There is a stabbing sensation in my chest. A most horrible pain! I bring my hands to my heart, urgently twisting my torso to the side in a silent request for him to move. I curl like a fetus. There is nothing now but a black swirling empty hole—empty yet not empty, and a wind. A very strong wind. I am a tree, blown over in the storm. I begin to howl violently. I shake, a heaping mess, an insane small child. He rests on his side, front facing my front, embracing. Thankfully, he has a thousand arms.

We hide in bed for hours. Tears; mouths; kisses. We whisper of the past, remembering details from that particular death, and others. I start to write poetry without paper. We unravel the knots by speaking them. Horseback, swords, a nearly-relentless rain. I begin to understand. He has already understood.


Check out more of Anya’s writings at AnyaLight.com and also her book Opening Love, a compassionate guidebook for intentional relationships.

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