Our Moon

Everything has been connecting.

Each meaningful conversation that I have with others

Launches thoughts that I have had before,

Though I cannot recall.

An internal whisper, “Not only are you not alone, but the homeless woman

Seemingly alone on the streets isn’t either.”

In some ways we are the same. She has the goddess inside her.

I sense that she knows it.

She braves cold weather and has blusterous conversation with nobody,

Or perhaps a lost love. She screams in agonizing pain and in doing so

Shows a strength that I am not using. She is letting go.

Releasing frustration and anger. She is bravely feeling deeply.

I am walking in silence and refusing to join in expression.

I’m afraid.

She is too but she also knows what it is to be feared. Dehumanized.

I’m comfortable being invisible and she may not even associate with comfort.

I’m plagued with the desire for it, but I already have it.

I own a bed surrounded by walls that block out wind and rain.

If I need water I need only walk down the hall.

She engages her own being, made of similar water

Containing magic.

I bet she deep breathes more than I do.

She is whom she knows.

She is wild and living free from time and his constraint.

She is observing the world, aware of relationships, warm soil, sodden concrete,

And the direction of the moon and constellations.

She needn’t Google Maps or social media affirmations.

She dances to the beat of her own drum, which she fashioned

Together with sticks, broken hair ties, and a box of stale fries.

She emanates peace and openness to any kind gesture.

A smoke or change.

We all need a little change, yet we are often afraid to ask for it.

I’m not always willing to ask for the help necessary.

I put the burden on myself, and soak up other’s burdens.

When I extend a hand to help whomever, especially those I love,

I want to die when I’m refused.

Just let me carry your load.

Please accept this glass of water.

Call out my name and desire my embrace.

Validate me.

She more often than not is refused help and that empowers her more.

She just wants to live.

When a stranger or loved one does help, it’s never me. That I can’t understand.

As I said, in some ways, the homeless woman on the streets is just the same as me.

I either insist she take the nourishment I have on hand,

Even if she is allergic or suppressed of appetite,

Or I insist I’ve no change to spare,

As it rattles in my pockets.

More and more I see myself in her.

The Wild Woman.

I wish I knew how to properly connect with her.

I wish I knew how to look her/me in the eyes and confess,

“I understand. I feel your pain. I’m with you now. I love you.”

Disconnection and fear plague me. After passing by the woman, I stop.

Standing still I close my eyes,

Inhale the forthcoming winter air deep into my lungs,

And exhale silence.

I imagine a scream. It’s her.

The goddess resides inside of her and her within me.

She was never homeless. Home is with us.

I turn back and this time we make eye contact.
She was patiently waiting to be seen and heard. We are now connected.

It feels safe to approach her and in doing so, 

I spot a shiny flat sphere upon the pavement.

“Here”, I say. “Accept this quarter, won’t you?”

“I will not”, she responds matter-of-factly, and then continues;

“You found that for yourself, love. That is your moon.”

Somehow understanding, I then sat beside her and offered her my jacket.

Lone behold when I looked up, there was the moon.

My moon. Our moon.

Blanketed by velvet sky and accompanied by Venus, the sphere called to us.

Our names—the same name.

Wild Woman.

We responded in song; a prayer of howls.

Never had I felt so alive.