Guest Poet
Gayle J. Greenlea - A poem of Light and Shadow
Zero Gravity
Zero Gravity
I have one happy memory
of you, us,
playing as father and
daughter should,
your hands firmly
grasping my arms,
as I hold on to yours.
You swing me in a great
wide circle;
I shrill with delight
over
the way my long hair
sails behind me
and before me in the
glinting sun like
a cape or the mane of a
flying wild horse,
as we cut dizzy circles
around the room.
The floor spins as your
big shoes dance,
drumming the rhythm that
keeps me in the air
like an astronaut at zero
gravity.
Your feet, trousers, and
my hair are all I can see,
except for the oozing
magical light that casts its evening rays
through the high windows
of our house, golden fingers snatching
at our blurry dance, and
missing us. I am happy.
I’m told you pulled my
arm out of its socket afterwards.
That pain I blocked to
protect the bright bubble of memory.
I guess the golden
fingers of twilight caught up with us after all,
casting us into the night
where gravity ruled once more
and I was no longer free
like that flying horse,
when your hands on me did
not make me laugh,
but stole my delight and
left me weeping in the darkness.
Your feet became a thing
to be feared,
as I heard you creeping
down the hallway to my room.
I imagined you were a
wolf sneaking through my window,
yellow eyes glinting in
the darkness,
solitary remnant of that
splendid late afternoon of golden light,
now squeezed small and
hard in my chest,
turned frightening now,
no longer vibrating innocence and abandon,
but still and cold.
You became a wolf, because
you could not possibly be my father.
On my fifth birthday, I
asked Mother to make me a red cape.
I wanted to be Little Red
Riding Hood,
because she knew her way
through the forest
and she always got the
best of the wolf.
A red cape replaced the canopy
of my flying black hair,
symbol of my bleeding
heart and my desire to show
your teeth under
grandmother’s cap.
A few years ago, Mother
gave me the cape, again.
She had kept it for me
all these years.
I marveled at how small
it was, and how tiny was the girl
who fought off the wolf
in the forest.
I left you in the forest
a long time ago.
I overcame my fear of
wolves, which lived long in my fear of dogs.
I have a dog named Abby,
now. Her name means, "Gift."
The wolf who came through my window was vanquished by Sophia,
the silver wolf who keeps watch over all the animals in the
forest,
who guards with her great
yellow eyes, fierce
only when she is
protecting the vulnerable from harm;
Sophia, the great silver
companion who comes
to stand at the edge of
the circle on my Vision Quest,
protecting me from my
terror, challenging me to go deeper
into my darkness,
teaching me not to be afraid,
imparting her wild
wisdom, making me recall my power,
howling with memory from a
more ancient time,
singing flesh back onto
my bones.
Sophia, who visits me
still in my dreams, sometimes
in human form,
whenever I need to
remember the song,
whenever I need to re -
member my soul.
And still, despite my
wolf friend who never leaves my side;
occasionally, the old
wolf emerges from the forest to do battle,
invasive as you always
were,
sneaking through my
window when I least expect it —
a voice on
my answering machine, a
package at my door,
a teddy bear to remind me
of the power you held over me
when I was too little to
fight back
with anything other than
my red cape.
And my heart compresses
into that cold, hard walnut in my chest.
But you are no threat to
me.
You are powerless here in
the space I’ve arranged for myself,
in my circle of zero
gravity,
where twilight curls and
glints in the eyes of my Bone Woman wolf,
who is me, guarding and
protecting the creatures of my world,
raising to life all that
was dead,
where ancient rhythms
thrum and the dance goes on, as I cut
dizzy circles around the
room, hair flying behind me
like
the mane of a
wild horse, wild woman, powerful and free.
The floor may spin,
but there are no feet big
enough to crush me,
anymore.
(The Bone Woman, according to
Southwestern mythology,
sings to the bones and
raises the dead to life.)
Gayle J. Greenlea
Copyright 2012
Artwork
by Ryohei Hase
(Fair
Use for Arts & Humanities Education)
http://ryoheihase.com/top.html
Gayle J. Greenlea began writing poetry at age eight, inspired by a love of trees which has remained a central theme throughout her life. Born in Fort Worth, Texas, she now resides in Sydney, Australia where she works as a professional Counselour and Spiritual Care Practitioner in the health system.
A peace and justice advocate for more than three decades, Gayle has worked to further multicultural and interfaith collaboration, provide care and support in the gay community, promote prevention of violence and sexual abuse and ameliorate healing for survivors. She holds an MDiv in theological studies from Trinity Lutheran Seminary in Columbus Ohio and is recipient of the Anna Seidler Award for Systematic Theology, 1988.
One of her poems was commissioned for the Fair-Well to Violence event in San Antonio, Texas in 1995, and she has written liturgy and presided as Celebrant for gatherings of the National Association of Mental Illness and the National Hispanic Ministries Conference for the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. She has worked as both a print and broadcast journalist, Press Secretary for the Democratic Party and Get Out the Vote in Texas, and co-authored a paper on Spirituality and Health, published in the Australian Health Review, March 2010. Her poem, "Wonderland," received the PROD award from Australian Poetry in 2011.
In addition to poetry, Gayle is writing a novel, sings and plays guitar and dabbles in photography, art, quantum physics, string theory, and cosmology. She has a passion for theatre, nature, Space, cats, coffee, chocolate, cooking, Spanish language and culture, human rights and the dignity of all creatures.