mantle

The mantle of the earth 

is between the crust and the core

and I wonder if my new arrangement 

in my house is that too. 

Something between what the world sees 

then assumes to be true

and the deepest burning part of me. 

I wanted this to look just right

with the red, the wood, the white. 

I wanted this to have friendly snow men, 

a trinity of boxes, candles, my prayer vessel, 

and balls.  I knew I needed the balls. 

And underneath this Country Homes mantle

is the core of me, all 7000 degrees celsius.

Burning on itself, fueling itself, 

in some suffocating centripetal spin.

Part of me is this which is pretty

and that which is on fire. 

Part of me is the prayer box and the ball. 

Part of me is the wreath, 

the bulbous belly of the snowman. 

Part of me is giving birth 

as I roar with something missing. 

I dusted every surface this morning, 

I placed then rearranged every object.  

I created balance and sweeping sightlines.

While in me, I was burning away the last nine months, 

setting fire to the dizziness, the silence, 

the months of no, the pinching self-condemnation.  

And while that heat bears pain, birthing pain, 

I am surprised to feel hope swing into the vacuum. 

Now, not consumed with what will never be, 

I am flickering with what is desired:

love without judgement, peace without fear, 

grace without expectation. 

And I know that,  like this lush planet, 

ornament to the universe, 

I contain it all and 

am somehow welcome in this mantle place: 

on the crusty edge of what is and what burns to be.