I asked as an afterthought, as she was packing up to leave.
“Do you still have the bag, that you brought His ashes here,
with you now? “
Taking her down the weird basement stairs,
Narrow awkward
individual brightly colored steps,
The wooden treads paint wearing away in the center.
Careful to tell her,
“Don’t trust the hand rail! It’s
loose at one end.”
Passing by the dusty old marimba,
the drum kit and stray cat poo,
My personal private magic work
place, Lies just ahead and below.
A mass of objects and offerings,
A heap of devotional stuff piled
up in the corner,
Composed and arranged, aligned
and configured.
Tools and traps, bottles and
boxes, vessels and containers, not presented for ordinary display.
Erratic particulars reassembled
tangled transposed trophies of my temple of one.
Layered activity, legacy of
deposit, idols that are not idle.
Many shelters within shelters,
homes within homes, worlds within worlds.
The place of my monthly mound journeys of
late, and the special healing prayers that pop up.
He never posted to the private
list about his personal experience, but he contacted me personally about what I
had shared, and how I was sharing on the private list.
I greatly appreciated what he had
to say to me, it encouraged my sense and sensitivity of sacred sharing.
The substance and subject
embodied in ceramic caricature,
Crystal spheres, copper wired in
the sockets of my oracular head of the ancient wise.
She had come up for the equinox
this year, his memorial was last.
She had left bits of his ash in a
few of my sacred spots developed on the land,
Now I hoped she would rub the bag
on the top of the head, pointing out the inter locking circles of Isaac’s
magic, doing my best to explain the additional patina and luster this offering-
this action brings into being.
