You were a flood after a drought—
my soil had turned to sand. Your waters
surged through fields; my roots were brittle
—impossible not to be swept up in the torrent.
Many think parched ground can swallow
the deluge, welcome it like a lover—
but a few with oracle eyes see disaster
approaching, know the parts of land
that will be washed away.
On Monday during the new moon,
I dreamt my home was a coral castle by the sea—
you had come seeking sanctuary. Refuge.
Your confidant told you I was a healer—g
She had been in need of a remedy months
before you arrived on my shores. How weary
you have been clawing your way through
the misty marshlands, and starving deserts.
I fed you an elixir made out of white daisies,
yellow rose petals and honey—wrapped
your lacerations in gauze, my canopy of herbs
and plants covered you like a shroud, a chrysalis.
I woke before your wounds fully healed.
Full moon reality, another Monday:
we are asked to wash away—
release what no longer serves us, cleanse
our scars with fresh moon water—
anoint them so they shine like stars.
This is the final step in restoration:
say it out loud, how he damaged us both—
how looking back we can’t figure out
why we stayed so long, when his only goal
was destruction, a volcano’s lava consuming
everything in its path. Countless others,
became scorched and annihilated—
their words are lost on the wind, or buried
under molten rock—incidents better forgotten.
We must spill truth into teacups.
Let my words be the catalyst—
there is no other way to begin.
Marisa Silva-Dunbar’s work has been published in Better Than Starbucks Magazine, Fevers of the Mind, and Pink Plastic House. Marisa is the co-editor of the anthology “Kirstofia.” She has work forthcoming in Sledgehammer Lit Mag, Analogies and Allegories, and Rough Diamond. Her second chapbook When Goddesses Wake will be published later this year by Maverick Duck Press. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris. You can find more of her work at http://www.marisasilvadunbar.com