Werewolf, Thunder and Other Poems - A Series by Adrie Rose

photo @lucahuter

photo @lucahuter

Little pear, little light
bulb, little universe. You
have expanded to a watermelon
and back again, you
river each moon,
you have
forgiven me,
you begin anew,
you continue.
You cup of blood,
you coiled serpent,
you power they have tried
to bind.

I took in
what you insisted
on giving me.
I spun this wreath of songs
from that slag,
and since you created
this world of bills
and taxes, I insist
that you pay me,
and pay me double.


What if
the first ones
they so named
were simply women
who lived with the moon in their pocket?
Gathering power,
unforgettable and unrefusable
when traveling the fullness;
withdrawn and sharp
in the waning.
Little wonder
they fear us, sisters,
as they have always feared
what is willing to be changed,
feared the dark unknowable sky,
the blood
in the beginning and the end,
the passionate dark.

Grandmothers, hard frost is on the fields
and any treasures we have not gathered in
will soon be rot.
Not just the squash and tomatoes.
I have hung my bundles of thyme,
dried my sassafras leaves.
I am getting louder and louder.
that we have not carefully preserved
is perishing quickly.
Walk with me closely now.
I have gathered all you gave me
that was meant to continue,
and given the rest back to the earth.
Back me now, hold me now
as I go farther than you were able.
Fuel this light as I step forward
in the dark
and hold up my hands.
my mother tongue
my mother land.
Where are you from?
but this:
was in the center of the storm,
never pretended
to be anything else.

Adrie Rose writes, works with clients, and teaches about herbs in unceded Pocumtuc and Nipmuck land (aka western MA).  She is a mama and a student of poetry and anthropology. 

Jessica Salgueiro