Spirare

I heard a startling statistic about forced abortions in China which inspired this poem.

A tingle crept in like a door to a dark room slowly opening. A single ray of light growing wider. The light-tingle, now buzzing, draws all attention inward. It is the only sensation.

A sudden flutter, the gentlest ripple on a still pond, yet undeniable like the rising sun reflected on its surface. Again, again the flutter-ripple leaps trying to gain a foothold on a crumbling slope. An ancient drum pounds the song of a thousand lifetimes and the flutter gains a steady confidence as it falls in step.

The buzzing-light folds in on itself and reveals an ocean. Like a warm fire this ocean is comfort. It has no bounds, yet every ripple every wave, every gentle rock and sway pierce its depths. The fire-ocean is home. This home is good.

Then a tremor, the fire-ocean churns, rocks tumble the drum pounds faster, the flutter-ripple quakes. Footing is lost, a free fall follows. All at once the ocean flash freezes, the light goes out, the door slams shut.