As One Listens To The Rain
~ Octavio Paz

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it’s raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain.

Legacies
– Lysbeth Em Benkert

You were not born with a silver spoon.
There were no manicured lawns,
no ballet slippers.
You learned early to watch
for the scorpions
in the road,
for the rattlers
under the baking rocks,
for the great rumbling volcanoes
in the house—
on the good days they didn’t notice you,
on the good days they were quiet.

* * *
She is so small.
The world will try to wrap her in pink;
they will give her white globes
that
make
her
invisible.
They will tell her stories of Griselda
about waiting.
They will tell her stories of Ruth
about devotion,
about pouring herself
into someone else’s cup
until there is nothing left.

* * *
You will not wrap her in anything.
Instead
give her ruby slippers
so she can always come home;
give her sturdy red boots
that make her
luminous.

Tell her stories of Lilith,
about how she is made form good, wholesome earth
not from a crooked rib.

Tell her stories of Judith,
about rising up to rescue herself.

Tell her that her voice
will ring out
to slay her enemies.

Tell her that she is not St. Paul’s girl—chaste, silent, obedient—
Tell her that
she
is
God’s
avenging
angel.

Tell her
that she can climb mountains,

that
she
is louder
than volcanoes.

The Weekly Insight from the Oracles for March 29, 2020 is live on my Patreon, with many thanks to my delightful Patrons!

Not a Patron yet? Click through to find out all the wonderful perks waiting for you!

Words to My Mother
~ Alfonsina Storni
Translated by Marion Freeman and Mary Crow

I don’t ask you to tell me the great truths
Because you wouldn’t tell me; I only ask
If, when you carried me in your belly, strolling through
Dark patios on bloom, the moon was a witness.

And if, when I slept listening
In your breast with its Latin passions,
A hoarse and singing sea lulled you to sleep nights
And if you watched in the gold dusk, the sea birds plunge.

For my soul is all fantasy, a voyager,
And it is wrapped in a cloud of dancing folly
When the new moon ascends the dark blue sky.

And, lulled by a clear song of sailors, it likes—
If the sea unlocks its strong perfumes—
To watch the great birds that pass without destination.