No Other Gods

Thou shalt have no other gods before me. 

            Nine year-old girls, instigators of mischief;
            Known inventors of gods? 
                        Let’s call one Mithras, one Valhes, one Osiris
                        Ishtar, Astarte, Robyn, LemonCreamPie
            We memorize the admonition.

Vengeance is mine, sayeth the loard. 

            Would I have favored another god? 
            One who did not reserve vengeance to himself, 
            none forthcoming, no justice either 
            Oh fatherinheaven oh father on earth why are you deaf? 
                        Perhaps the goddess Robyn would have saved me. 

                       

He so loved the world that he sent his only sun. 

            Mixed messages: 
            You tortured god. 
            God loves you. 
            My sister tortured me. 
            I am not Jesus.  I do not love my sister. 

And be, hold a virgin.  Bore a child. 

            What mad scheme, male gives birth to a male, who is himself. 
            Male, like one who raped me
            Forever separated by the soft fleshy thing between his legs
            Never again are males human beings
            Monsters, with vengeful little gods tucked into their pants.

Robyn threw mighty lightning-bolts and plagues, if she were real. 


~Kathlean Wolf, 28 January 2013

Waiting for Light

I grow a little smaller every year. 
When December blows in on snow-clad feet,
damping the sun
and all the earth seems to shudder, hunker down
bracing against the snow,
the long dark. 

I grow a little smaller every year.
All the summer sun revealed in me,
all that was kind, outgoing, exuberant,
is hidden in shadows, light-starved
I do not remember my good heart
only all that I have failed. 

Trees entrenched against the cold
wrap the deep earth around themselves,
let loose their leaves to save them from
the deadly weight of snow,
limbs flying free
I watch them from my window,
waving in the wind, limned in crystals of white.
Watch squirrels prancing branch to branch,
bright black eyes, simple lives
Finding food, feeding tiny babies hidden
somewhere. 

I grow a little smaller every year,
Watching out my window, years
Darkness, years. 
Forget, ignore, avoid, distract, make flight;
The dark, the memories, cruel, biting. 
Each December scars collect on scars
And I wrap myself around them,
Holding tight, bound,
to tissue that might burst apart
if I let go. 

Bound, tight; I grow a little smaller every year. 

Kathlean Wolf, 29 December 2012

Sounding Sleep

He takes out his
robot ears at night,
and cannot hear
the sounds of the house;
soft cracks, groans
of pleasure as it
settles into the heavy winter earth.
Cannot hear
the sound of books,
rustling pages, weight and depth
lying all on their sides, in strata,
cover touching cover, like old friends,
whispering
of stories, of time and whimsy, mystery;
thoughts strewn out with pens
held by hands
living, and long-gone. 

And I, with my scarred drums
listen;
shattering booms of
mice quick-stepping inside my walls,
trees tapping rhythms against each other
accompanied by waves of air,
hum and moan of machinery,
gurgling water wandering through
lonely pipes in the basement below;
I with my scarred drums,
sit staring into the clamorous darkness,
hear the fog creeping in gently
between the trees,
sleepy browsing of deer, teeth
rasping against the bright cherry bark,
and envy
deafened sleep. 

12 January 2013
~K. Wolf, for L. Bosworth



Points of reference:

This was written following a visit to the home of my new friend, Lewis, who wears hearing aids.  He is a bibliophile--a biblioholic, in fact, with a home full of books.  Full.  Truly. 

Throughout my childhood, I had ear infections that ruptured my eardrum several times a year.  Nothing remains of the original eardrums; however, because loud noises have always been painful, I've protected my hearing more than most people do.  Now that the ear infections have stopped, I hear everything.