Protective but fragile, like a circle of beads on a thread, lined up carefully around a wrist or throat, the words come one after another in a poem, a mantra, a spell.
Dusk deepens into night, quiet surrounds us. We wait for sleep to take us into soft waters of forgetting. But the going isn’t easy. The Other is also in the room, pulling at us with words. Relentless and raucous, arrows in the heart of our spell.
Curled tighter away from the other, becoming our own circle of poems. We need the Other for the push and pull, the struggle and story. Push and pull of beads in the dark, fingering the words at our throat.
Good words, bad words, sacred words. We carve them into our own amulets.
Drifting Island 