Release 2012

She says she can feel Mayan fingers

on the shadows of the year come calling.

Proceeds to tell me of the vivid dreams

that have been drifting through themagnolias

and stinging her in antebellum rooms.

As incense burns the hours,

I watch her sit cross-legged

with piles of books she deems prophetic,

try to decipher symbols

on her cloudy calendar.

She claims I will soon wake to the rattle

of history down my spine,

chant the song of my own release.