by © E. Hitchcock Scott. November 2, 2021
Standing at the entrance
I see my initial carved in rock.
The labyrinth calls
and I stumble
around the lopsided circle
of my life
to my core self.
Is this all there is?
In the mirror of my grandmother’s
powder room, another gateway looms.
It is as if I stutter the same consonant
or word, over and over
in the reflections, like a Russian doll,
opening all the way down.
The Backbone Trail stands high
above the ocean.
I have backbone. I have stood
high, when I wanted to drown myself
in the cool, dark depths of the sea,
to breathe in the salts of death
to follow my love
to other dimensions
To avoid with passion
the alarm clock and traffic.
Columbus searched for riches
land, gold, fame, flesh.
How can I be so brave about death?
My whole life has been a revolving fool’s errand,
around a flattened eclipse
or a flat world.
Like a conquistador, I strike out for what cannot be seen,
with a compass that does not work,
an hour glass that cannot tell time,
and my telescope turns out to be a
single reflex, wide angle lens.
“Wound my heart with monotonous languor,”
a password, a code,
a secret announcement on the BBC,
“Ici, Londres”.
Do you understand me now?
The mystery is as important as science,
and people have more grief over
unexpressed love,
than they do about profound trauma.
At Chartre, the childrens’ gaze follow the old woman’s
broad gestures, their heads turn in unison
and their harmonious oohs and aahhs
sound like music filled with wonder.
So tell people you love them,
do not wait for the right time,
do not find excuses.
Be Brave, hike your Backbone Trail,
and shout love into the valley,
let the sound of your voice
echo across the mountains
and the seas.