Blade
I sense her in the phantom light
of a closed eye.
Behind a fallen lid cave shadows dance.
I taste an interiority --- a sap
mingled with a salt-lick of self.
I sense her in the phantom light
of a closed eye.
She is not a totem, not an animal spirit
She is that place where
everything becomes something else;
her shape has its own life.
Shaving in the morning
I scrape chin stubble,
decide to shave thinning hair,
until my head is clean and hard.
She circles my peripheral senses
watchful.
Now I know what she is,
she is the child of my animal nature,
not pure, not ethereal,
but the honed edge of my animus
though strangely female
as all soul entities are.
She keeps me iron-edged
in the keen, and razor sharp daylight.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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