18 February 2008 | Vol. 7, No. 4

Gacela of Unforgotten Love

by J. P. DANCING BEAR

If anyone asks: did you ever love? Say that

a moth was born from leaves and landed

on your tongue, like fingers plucking the harp strings.

And though it was not pronounced

you knew that an angelic form had come

with dusty wings. It delivered words

that you did not know could be spoken.

And then say: that a coyote yelped

from under a straw moon and added something

that the light had missed—a meaning deeper

than what we normally allow ourselves;

something humming and alive in the weeds

hungrier than our beliefs, our beliefs.

You might sing this next part, as if with harp music:

that you had remembered the voice of water,

that you know the forest can chorus your feelings,

that everything comes together with a music

that has always been there, even

if you cannot ever recall hearing it before—yes,

that the owl's voice rises up joyously to join

in the symphony you have only now realized.

Remember to mention prayer: how you woke up

hungry and a prayer on your tongue. One that had been

hiding there most of your life—a rationalized myth,

a fairytale outgrown, fondly kept on the nightstand

of hope and kindness, next to angel feathers

and the candles of saints. Did you ever love? Open

your mouth with its moth dust, and whisper back how

you had crawled the longest night, half-mooned, a howling

around your ears, blind with fear, weeping, following

the slightest touch of water, back into the wilderness,

hungry and in need, to what had always beckoned in the dark:

that thrumming harp, winged, and reflecting all light.