Shakti crushed my heart.
Broke my soul open like a pomegranate
To pull the luscious kernels out one by one. Shakti
Scattered my everything
Across the floor and out the door into the dirt
So I would have to bend, to crawl on my knees
To pick it all up again.
And it was Shakti
Who gave me the baskets to sort it all out as I collected
The pieces and tossed
Away what does not serve me.
She stood watching, sucking
The sweet juice of pomegranate
While I nursed my bruised heart
While I bandaged my busted soul
While I sorted my belongings into collections
That would serve creatively.
I cursed.
I cried.
I crumbled the waste.
I carried the treasures
Into a new life
Tools for my creation.
Shakti traveled with me
Handed me a fresh pomegranate.
Grace Lightfoot Chairez
(spring 2020)
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