Sacred Contracts VII: Darkness
Motel 6: “We’ll leave the light on for you.”
All living are the darkness of their bones;
Spirits and Specters, hemoglobin in every color
of defending warrior donning leather’d armor.
I’ve observed men leaving the women they love,
the "’light’of their [lives]” shining brightly
as a beacon for their lonely 2:00 am motel
trek home from “darkness” they’ve tasted.
I get it. I do.
A light is something trusted to guide you;
it’s safety, security, warmth; sacred as nursing
breasts, not a “darkened” experience between
another woman’s legs because the chance of his
own love, the “light of his life” being even half-
dark is simply too great a chance to risk.
(She need not know any of this. She need only
continue to illuminate his darkened state so
that he may return home again, debased.)
Darkness. Let me tell you its secret. Darkness
is the underbelly of a verse, a diaphanous beauty
The pyramids aligning planets, not the reverse;
A solstice spell staring you down through the navel
of Stonehenge, hieroglyphic language on fingertips
just beyond linguistics. It’s drowning through the gut
of a poem 1000 feet below sea level. It's rappelling
down the ballad with a melody too short to prevent
bruising of muscles and stretchmarks to follow.
It’s dust flaking from the throat of a well where
a virgin waters her camel alone. It’s incandescent,
a limpid ritual of an interpreted crop circle; a familiar
scent, nag champa oil and the lick of sugar thick
across the palette. It’s an ingested scream from
between a lipped valley. Its grit, teeth, and sweat
caking crevices of knees and elbows; dirt trekked
necklaces staining clothes from days of climbing
the sonnet’s structured back before discovering
water’s frozen origin across your mouth.
It’s exhilaration, a severed envelope of recognition
tumbling freedom; a native rite of communal passage;
A Spiritual blood-bond; a coming home not by or
of light from anyone else but as the light itself.
It’s a liar’s worst nightmare stumbling in the mud
of 3:00 AM with another woman’s scent on them:
It’s a Holy Pact – A Sacred Truth forging pure joy.
It’s not to be hidden but proudly experienced.
Most men’s darkness is a pharaoh who ruled
women by ruthless law, his tomb cursing
the desecration of his bed chamber by inscribed
light upon a stone sarcophagus of stolen gold.
A woman’s darkness isn’t for the faint-of-heart,
it’s through choice she reveals the ancient code
to the worthiest of archaeologists who honor
the unearthed balance of a humble truth.
The depths of physical desire, “where the skin
parts” isn’t a dark mystery to be explored
or conquered upon the back of a lie. It’s a cracked
wonder, a pomegranate spilling sweet seeds across
compressed grass above tangled roots of curled bone
quietly gestating in the softened egg of the moon,
where a woman’s darkness swallows a man whole.
Until individual men remember this Sacred Contract
We'll leave the light on so they can find their way back.