Ho’oponopono
By Kelsey D. Mahaffey
“In the book of the earth, it is written:
nothing can die.” – Mary Oliver
The morning after it happens
again—weary with all
the thoughtless use of prayer,
I return to the Native path—
for solace,
for remembrance,
for release—
But grief is a heavy hold.
Last night, I lay awake
searching each shooting
star—the moon a wound
the sky refused to heal.
And today, as usual, the sun
woke from bended knees—
rising to break
the long hush of night.
So many have left
to hunt for arms—
answers or anger,
who can say? All around,
there are islands of dew
gathering the spring fields,
birds busy with work—
children still to feed.
Forgive us.
Somehow, a worn cradle of
moon still rocks—heaving waves
upon the shore. A ground dust dances
in the merciful arms of wind.
Dearest Mother,
if we ever choose to weep,
let it be tuned to the depths
of your whale’s forgotten song.
Kelsey D. Mahaffey rests her head in Nashville, TN, but keeps half her heart in New Orleans. She needs music and nature like breath and water, and walks the earth barefoot beside three humans and a bow-legged cat. Her work can be seen or is forthcoming in: Eunoia Review, Cumberland River Review, The Sunlight Press, and “The Keeping Room” at Minerva Rising Press.
Photo credit: Debbie Hall, photographer and author, and Writers Resist poetry editor.
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