My mother is a mystic
the way she roasts a chicken
and dreams of talking bears.
The spring her garden burst into flames
with zinnia and peonies, she shouted,
this world is a wasteland, leave the windows
open, let in the rain! I am warned against
any conversations that begins with the words
it's a fact or trust me.
They're all hand-me-downs, discarded things,
she says, once you scrape away the debris
don't you find we're already everything
any of us has ever needed?
Our every gesture an invocation,
each action a phoenix,
and when divination doesn't work
touch, root, smolder.
By Michel O'Hara
Biography:
Michel O'Hara is a poet and photographer living in Los Angeles, CA. She is currently completing her B.A. in Liberal Studies, Creative Writing at Antioch University Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in gallery shows and photography exhibitions across the U.S. and was included in the photography anthology "Personal Narrative". Currently she is an editor at the literary journal Two Hawks Quarterly.
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