Neile Graham

The Goddess of the Visible Invisible
 
If she were anything, she'd be 
a bird, small and brown 
the colours of the earth
around her, umber, mahogany, 
cedar, and dust. The shade 
of dirt, of the branches 
she clutches and hides between. 
She cannot be seen beyond 
the flash of wings, her startle 
among the leaves. Who is she, 
the twitch of fears both big
and small? The rawness 
of what is and cannot be. 
Hidden, she sings about her turf, 
the air between her branches 
and how you must stay away, 
you and you and all those crows, 
thieves of eggs and children, 
each note a warning. Does it matter 
if she can only wound you
with her words? They're what 
she has, what she’s best at. 
If not for those, you’d notice her. 
Not noticing her is what she's
best at. But she has wings 
and she's that bit of rustle 
that burst of air that she draws
In, pushes out and spins 
around you. She is nothing 
if she does not sing. She sings.
 


The God of--
 
Waiting just on the brink of--
a cliff, a kiss, a dream
 
a dream of--
whatever you imagine now
 
splayed in summer light
under the tree where tiny apples
 
have begun to burgeon
as they eat the light
 
pulling everything, everything
from the suspending branches
 
the archeology of years
tamed inside the column of bark
 
reaching down--
down and through all the messages
 
antlering through the soil
feeding and being fed and feeding
 
it’s the book fallen from
your hand dressed in paper
 
anointed in ink like your fingers
your eyes are closed--
 
your hands open
your palms open to--
 
the weight of the air
the messages borne--
 
by apples, by the words on those spread
pages, by the scent and feel of--
 
the ground you tend pressed
beneath your spine



The Goddess of This
 
Of being here. The goddess
of lives alive. Look down
 
to the so-close sight of our toes
side by side and sinking in sun-
 
warmed sand, grit swelling up
over dusty sweaty skin. Beside
 
them one hand poised to dig in.
To dig out a wave-tossed
 
cloud-streaked stone, while
yet another hand lifts, traces
 
the horizoned trail of the longing
calls blistering from the gulls
 
as they swing by then land
to dress the shore as if their bodies
 
were beautiful. Their bodies are beautiful.
The good grit in my palm sifting
 
the sand the stone the waves of sun
of longing onto you. My open hand on you.



Neile Graham is Canadian by birth and inclination, but is a long-term Seattle resident where she can still live close to salt water and rainforest. Her work has recently appeared in Amethyst Review, Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, The Thieving Magpie, and Mad Swirl. Her most recent collection, The Walk She Takes, an idiosyncratic tour of Scotland, appeared in 2019. She also has three previous collections and a spoken-word CD. She recently retired from 19 years of wrangling writers and schedules for the Clarion West Writers Workshop; she won A World Fantasy Award in 2017 for that work. See neilegraham.com for more information.