A small skull
was in the bag
we carried down the mountain –
the body severed
from its head –
“forgotten”
and left behind.
No, I cry wounded
beyond comprehension,
insisting we return
the parts to the whole –
if only for burial.
We climbed the mountain
three times in all
my reluctant partner
choosing trance and lead.
I claimed the body,
wept for what could have been,
mourned the dead –
in Indian country…
Working notes:
Sometimes it is necessary to put skin and bones, by way of words, on a dream that is too disturbing to put aside.
The severing of our heads from our bodies is the root of the split that allows us to continue to survive in modern culture. We intellectualize, rationalize, use logic, embrace denial – anything to gain distance from the one whose loss we mourn – albeit unconsciously – the death of our sensing, feeling, body – the wild animal within us – the one who has access to the compassionate, loving self – the bridge to our own survival and that of the planet upon which we depend upon for life.
