Yara’s Near-Life Experience – 9 October 2019, a poem

Come, take the Cash, she whispered
a quick breath escaped as the spirit itself,
Spilled out between the bars of the Liquor Shelf;
The day outside the formaldehyde stench of
the halogen aisles she forced a smile,
As the hapless ones who do
Live on filtered brilliance, light
Is not gifted them direct,
But, as the sun the light upon
the alabaster shines,
To stay inside while there is time,
To hold onto those moments where
Time and space are knotted there
And music attends the scene, like a dream,
A carousel of kaleidoscopes,
“Sweet girl, sweet dreams.”

She never took her meds, not Yarah,
And deja vu is a stereotype
The floor rose up to embrace her as a lover does
As a pool that is too cold,
When one first jumps in.
After a time a change comes by
And the two states exchange;
Where now it’s too hot to get out
To face the cold of the world without
The pool was a seizure-room
She went to
When she collapses and knots up,
as warm as the womb.

She came to herself and looked down,
Seeing there,
A sprawling mess of curly hair,
She thought she was dead for a moment, and there,
By her body she could see,
A reflection on a moving screen;
So the floating ghost that hovered round
Could watch the figures while she was out.

But she heard it, yes, there – did you –?
The silence calls, just silence, shh —
It’s overwhelming, a voice of Gold,
Complete, total, the screen flickered
and she screamed.

Oh silence, judge us not!
The beast that had to kill to Live!
Pardon, my Lord;
The thief who stowed away and Crossed
The Shimmering Curtain – ah, a scent of moss!
Is it not for him whose thorny crown,
Who paid the loan the forgotten Earthling, he
East of Eden kicking leaves;
Cursing the Wind, Cursing his God,
Be Fruitful, bring in the wine!
We’ll toast to the Justice of Job an’
In thyme, may we make just,
Those in the pitch black shadow that
is cast, Time has a shadow,
This Rust,
Is the future’s whisper through its mirror
That it has its eye on us.

A time will come when the sun will freeze
And dawn will hang suspended, trembling
An autumn leaf caught in a breeze
Lifted by a breathe, Breathe, now,
Sing! For the silent Lord!
For the Two-Faced God who Botched the Job,
At least Satan, hate to say it, had
the decency to stay His hand.

Oh, the Devil is on Tap, for sure;
But God would make a mother fucker wait,
Until they had too long stood before the gate;
Burning their vigils to their devils
Shame on you, all due respect,
You vicious pervert, and she wretched;
Sticky hands went towards her palms
Lifting her back into her,
And floating, she just watched;
The flickering screen turned black and green
And the door opened with an electric breeze

“Breathe, sweet child,
Mercy me…”
Yarah did not know, though she always thought,
There was no echo in the dark,
No hand to grab you when the air
Was all between you and the snare.
And thinking she would die she let out such a cry:

To be accused of eating Fruit,
Diagnosed with sin because of a rib
Magically made into Eve and then!
Since she couldn’t trust her gut
That a snake was not something to trust –
We all must die and burn and flail
In empty pits of freezing hail,
The straggler sat in a dim lit room,
A gambler with red red eyes shot and gloom
Hung o’er the Waiting Room.
The Gambler rolled again, and lo,
He raked in the air by the armfull there,
Cursing the air he had to breathe.
The straggler in the room, in lust

Voices, mother, is that you?
Mercy, merci beau coup,
Loose the strings, release the flies,
The spider beside shouts “Mas shim’kha?”
And she hears drill through her ears
The thump of a hammer made of glass,
Thumping against a wall and cast
A painting – oh, of me, ah, alas.
The floating ghost hung back, and sighed,
Was she forever trapped,
Had she really died?
My little lemon, get up, come on.
Take the canvas and expand
Use that silk, be the spider.
Hypnotized by electric light
Automatic as the lilies and the rose,
nor the crows that scared van Gogh!
Oh Lord!
The light looked back, a brilliance shared,
The moon was a little stepping stare,
A taper light no more, it could,
Make peace with its dimness as it should.

She heard her mother speak, or was it –
No –
“Don’t fret, don’t weep, it’s within reach
The air we breathe is air we keep.
When you fall just reach, and there,
Where fingertips grasp at the air
The silence catches and reflects
The empty space – it had reached back,
From a floating mote lost amid a puff of smoke
Yarah drifted into senses and in a sense awoke.

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