“So the Greeks won’t kill.”
That was the answer,
scribbled in black

on a piece of parchment
unfurled at the foot
of my bed. A cryptic

message from some
omnipotent power
whom I prayed to

asking the reason for an
out of body experience,
an astral projection.

Mystic transcendence
to realms inside drywall
for months on end.

I should modify the prayer
to better suit my beliefs,
Metaphysics over the Messiah,

if you will. So forgive me
father, for I have sinned.
It has been twenty years

since my last confession.
I accuse myself
of many a mortal sin.

In the name of the Father,
the Son,
and the Holy Spirit–

Of deep sleep and rapid
eye movement.
Murmuring vibration.

In the name of keen
awareness and a third eye.
Being naked in the sheets.

Of air molecules that hang
fuzzy and champagne
golden from the ceiling.

In the name of moon walking
over kitchen linoleum,
bouncing and hovering

through curtains,
through glass,
through brick city walls.

In the name of plunging
into Caribbean depths.
Ferocious eels, slick,

calling. In the name of
not knowing my location
in the universe,

which plane of existence
I stand on. In the name of
a fragile spirit

attached by fibrous
airwaves to my skin,
frightened of never returning.

In the name of vicious
mattress thrashing and trying
to harness the soul back to body

Praise be to God, or something like it.

Amen.

Without the pebbles
boulders
flat rock
ravines
or trenches
dug out by years
of erosion
the frenetic
bubbling water
would flood
the soil
sidewalks
city streets
and then nature
would be off-balance.
For with every impulsive
action
must exist a steady
reaction
and hence, sediment
was formed,
not to barricade
the unpredictable
river,
but rather
to gently and naturally
mark its place
amidst the chaos
and guide it
safely home
to the ocean.

Seated in Sukhasana,
head over heart
heart over pelvis,
I lower my gaze
to my chest.
Large pores, nascent
stages of wrinkling,
span my cleavage.
Boldly on display, joining
blood blisters
and freckles
and fine baby hairs.
I’m proud of these marks.
My mom has them.
My aunt, too, who bronzes
better than all the
women in this family.
Matriarch of the Decker women
Lineage. Gypsies and thieves.
Allegedly.

Hands folded in Anjali Mudra,
I lift my chin in sun salutation.
Ask, “Who were those Lebanese
women before me?” who
make up my composite parts.
Real, pioneer women,
babies at their hips and breasts.
Long, crooked noses cast down
on men there solely for utility.
Situs talking shit over
kibbeh nayyeh.
Lean hands dipping Syrian bread,
Molding girls into sharp, sensitive
women.
Like my mother
and me
and the child that won’t follow.