The myth was all we had. That story,
but what was it? A path up a mountain,
and at the top, a rock, a tunnel
or entrance to an underground cave.
I could feel this . . . how to describe
a feeling that started like a vibration
or opening in the chest cavity,
then in the head and feet
even as I walked from the bottom
of the path and up, a winding
through thin pines lining the way?
The sun hailed us like song,
an old riming of light.
This was a road pilgrims
had traveled. We were walking it,
and my feet knew I walked here
before. They knew this way.
The feeling didn’t fade
but grew stronger as we came
into a great cleft in the cliffs.
A guide said, This was the sibyl’s rock,
and beside that precarious jut of boulder
was an opening into the ground.
I was vibrating like a divining rod.
There was no where to go
but through the ruins. My sister heard
a tone or tones, A chord, she said,
warning of peril or sorrow. A future
we could see but not change.
The story is the path or way.
We happen upon it once or twice,
arrive in the lucid
to a place where we once came
to know what we do not know.
My body knew. Still. It felt
like a feeling. I called it a feeling.
from: The Incognito Body (Red Hen Press 2006)