Fools Gold by mgnola

I'm on to you, you know. I know about this thing. This phenomenon. I've read my books, had my counseling. It starts with a sweat-drenched wake from a dream...a dream that seems to come from the bowels of your being. Leopard, panther, hyena, owl, and snake crawl out of their perspective holes in the bottom of some huge cavernous archeological dig. That's the start.

It takes you off guard, grabs your heel on the edge of a slippery clay bank and pulls you down into the swamps of your soul.

I know about this feeling – a feeling so strong you forget it is a feeling – and think it is really fate. A desire that feels like that first sip of pure grain alcohol that ever ran through your veins, on its way to deaden the pain and light an addictive fire in your belly.

I know that feeling – like possession of spirit – like I want to kiss you so deep I turn you inside out – like I want to break against you like a wave on a rock to make myself whole again – like I want to bring you down so far you're kissing the sun.

I'm no fool this time. It is very slippery here and – I've learned – it's safer not to take a step in ANY direction – be still or step lightly – even when my heart is racing like a panther in my skin – twitching to leap –

You see the last time I felt this way – I married the guy. That was BEFORE I knew – before I knew that the seeds of hell are cleverly mixed in with the seeds of passion...that feeling like – I know your heart and soul before I've even tasted your tongue or alchemically mingled our sweat. It is a trick of the mind – a holographic spell.

Yes, maybe we were the two silent gray wolves - eyes so blue they shock one out of the forest of snow and birch. Two wolves wait in the white snow – among the birch – so far from man – a blue moon so cold we were on fire.

Yes, maybe somewhere deeper than even me – I am howling at that moon – missing my other half – howling alone – wounded, waiting still.

So, see, I'm on to this little thingy this time.

The last time I wanted to knock down every door in a man's soul – shove on the lights and lift him to heaven – last time I wanted to burn a façade – melt a man to butter and eat him like toast – I didn't know that I was going to really get ALL of the things I didn't even know I was asking for. I didn't know I was really knocking down the doors of my own soul – MY secret doors. You see it a mirror trick. See, when I snapped out of my own fog and realized I was standing in the basement of my own shadow, and when I broke so hard I fell to my knees and cried "Mercy, have mercy."

When the reflection boomeranged and the mirror so relentless – I gasped – stunned and crucified by my own truth.

See – that's the time all of my pretty gardenias were suddenly beheaded, my magnolias hung from the tree like a rope, and the moon – aloof and cold as a drunken mother – that's when seasons slipped through my veins like a suicide. That's when light was sharp as glass and I knew I had nowhere to go but forward.

I know about this now – and this time – I won't be fooled.

This I DON'T know:

Now that my spring is back – my gardenias given another chance to lift their fragrant heads – and I am drumming to the new moon. NOW what do I do with you, O Sacred Mirage, where you vine through my veins like a fire, licking at my soul. How do I remember to feed my son, pack his lunch. How in the face of this possession do I get back to a job that bores me to tears – how do I motivate my arms to weed my gardens, sort my seeds, answer the phone?

I DON'T know what to do with your "know-me-to-the-core" clear sky eyes, I don't know what to do with your "I-will-take-you-home-to- heaven" hands, your "soothe-my-weak-and-tired-soul" voice, and your "I-want-to-be-born-and-die-in-you" arms.

God – I pray – what do I do with all of this...this, this blindingly beautiful brilliant gold...this O so shiny gold falling out of my lap, tumbling to the ground? What do I do with all of this precious gold...

...and NOT believe it is real?

Mimi Gauthier
(2003)