My fur be faux ’cause I found no need to kill for warmth—we have been graced with the rise of comforts, namely pushbutton heat.
I pay no blood price.
You will not catch me trapping rabbits for fashion, ‘cuz like my diamonds I clean no blood from knives for a good show.
You may spy me in authentic fur—genuine leather maybe,
but know it’s been recycled, thrifted, hand-me-downed or gifted, and to the dear creature who has sacrificed most I offer no price, but many meditations well paid.
You will see me here or there my crown ‘dorned full and gratefully feathered, be kin to know they have long since been pluck from vintage wings, cast down from the plumes of one who still soars the skies or pulled from a shelf of manufactured plumage.
Still, you will not find me cursing the man who captures the doe, or the woman who glistens like pressure crafted stars from a laboring man’s land—no, ‘for every life has a price to pay, every bird a good song—and we all have a measure of heart, no one being’s strummings lesser or grander than the next.
Yesterday I went knocking on her door. The wombman who answered, I felt Her gaze through the peephole—heard Her mind adjusting the locks. “Uh, I’m looking for the backslider…the broken one…the child with the contrite heart?” From out of the corner of my Eye, I saw many fingers falling from inside the window frame and bent blinds mending themselves…and then, I heard a plethora of well-blended voices spring from behind the gold-framed door—”I think you have the wrong house, she doesn’t reside here anymore.”
Mirrors are fluid and dark. Beneath the liquid reflecting glass is a dark basin. Far below this surface is where I found all that is truly I: you will find all that is truly you—waiting. At the lowest depth of the sea—the place where no sunlight strives to reach there is earth …and there is also life. In this darkness there is no light; and yet, life is created daily, and it thrives for years and years and years with no ceasing—some life far beyond antiquity.