Walking With the Wax and Wane

Photograph by Natalie Anderson

Music curated by Krista Michaela.

By Lilia Skelhorn

i.

I’m angry a little. 

I don’t think he has any right to make me cry.

And what has he done that is so real? 

That could in any way touch my core?

I walked a fine line between cravings and instinct 

watching watching watching.

I can’t decide who won. 

I recount, 

all the ways 

I may have lost my balance, 

all the moments 

where I could have protected my power better, 

but I can’t recall any moment where I so fully gave it away?

I ask in the cab ride home— 

‘she who protects our bodies and souls,

 and reminds us that we are sacred,

 that we are chalices,

 and prophecies and jewels, 

Us— 

who may be dancing in the dirtiest venues, 

standing behind bars,

 walking to the bus— 

headphones in,

 harvesting rose hips off the sides of roads—  

why do we allow our treasured forms to be touched 

by those who would blast the ground to hold us once,

 and leave us on the windowsill— 

when we deserve to be loved, 

feet not taken away from our mother? 

Why do we let them touch us?’

I’m angry that my head turned to look for you. 

You knew you were stretching me, 

I watched it fulfill something I wish I could have deprived from you. 

I ask myself in the cab;

‘She who protects our bodies and souls 

and reminds us we are sacred;

Did I do okay? 

Did I betray us? 

Did I protect… anything? 

Did I do good goddess? 

Was it okay?’

In the dark cab I stretch out my hand to hers.

‘Why don’t they know who we are? 

Why don’t they remember who we are? Why don’t they remember who they are?’

 I know what’s true. 

I know what’s true. 

I could have gone back. 

To look silly and ask for something. 

Something more, I don’t know what. 

Something he would have happily deprived from me.

But I didn’t. 

I looked up at the moon—

a red ring around it that night,

 and followed her out the door

 through the gates, 

and onto the winter streets. 

I tried to calm the pounding of my heart, 

the pulsing, 

the heat, 

the question marks between my thighs,

                                         ‘Where is my lover? Where are we going?’

If I made any conscious decisions that night, 

it was the one that kept me walking, 

towards home, 

towards the moon. 

Linking my arms with theirs and smiling. 

Away from him. 

Because I know I am sacred.

And he does not. 

And that is the thing that hurts. 

I don’t want you to think

that that’s it.

The road ends where you begin and it is a new story,

one where I am proud of the words. 

It was just, that on that night, we had to learn the way home. 

That night we let the moon put her wings around us. 

We had to make room for something else.

We had to re-write history…

I had to know the difference. 

I had to know that I really was 

sacred. 

ii.

Door won’t close

and the tea kettle goes

whispering around

standing on their toes

porch stairs creak 

and she blows a smoky streak— 

into this unpromised day

I’m kept away

safe in my body

or so I tell myself

lying awake

The goddess don’t have the same face as she did

and I’m making mistakes

now I’m getting bad advice, getting sad and dizzy

no rules or bells to call me home

just my voice

fall, 

break

come back to life 

or stay the same.

Today I felt like Mary, the mother one, 

and the Mag’d

and I just didn’t even care, 

I hugged the cross that took him,

they just stuck it there in the sand,

felt her heart break in all the ways

and so much I realized— 

I would just never understand.

Hair all stuck to my face

angels crying on this strange Easter Sunday I guess.

I wonder what would happen if I just threw my heart into the water,

if I’m so much a part of her 

would it really matter?

I just want to be an angel to ya,

that leaves the good braided grass on your bed,

before dawn,

and kisses your head,

but before your eyes open 

i’ll be gone.

or maybe it’s just that I just need an angel

or maybe it’s just that I just need an angel

or maybe it’s just that I just need an angel

wake up wake up wake up angel

Dark and dancing, 

or light and still

just to let you know it’s all the same to me, 

do what you will

Bus driver, I hate the city 

can you take me to the sun?

kind of mad at him too

but better to burn the dark out of this heart. 

stick my foot out the window

gleams

I’ll heal from this.

iii.

Curled onto one side

waited so long

and from the nape of her neck 

there broke the dawn

there’s this cobbler peach toddler, 

blonder since she’s younger

smiling and free

laughs from squinting

little body thrilled by the sea

wearing the weeds she says— 

look!

 there’s light caught in our hair!

She kicks up the world

and at the horizon 

I stare

Well she’s not mine

but we got the same eyes

helps me remember who I was

When he could scoop me up with one arm

and use the other to fly

Now two arms are too much 

sometimes

I wish

    I knew why

Haven’t been here for long but 

my love, it feels withered

like old red leather

still precious and beaded though

it’s still there

it’s treasure 

I just want to know as the light trickles down

when it comes to the cobbler peach toddler and the woman like daughter

who knows better?

He rose to the side of me, 

it’s a grey purple morn,

fire lights the inside 

this winter is warm.

Haven’t decided yet if two arms are okay

but as the fingers

linger

I know I want them to stay. 

Curled onto one side, waited so long

and from the nape of my neck

he spread like the dawn.

iv.

The night offered 

before it took me home

to leave with it 

the weight of my pocket—

the stone perfume box I held onto

even after the wax had gone—

and place it on the shore 

where it’s watery hands could claim it.

I awoke to drumming on the door

the morning after

remembering what the night had said,

and the ritual I had done.

Soft from sleep 

towards the rich tones of 

rhythmic hand against

Peeling paint

red wood

and on the doorstep

 Stood the blinding sun

I was half dressed, 

unembarrassed. 

‘The night must have told you.’ 

I called.

‘And that’s why you’re here.’ 

Smile like a lily curl

I suckle at the creases

perfect gazing nodding bobbing

and I fall back 

onto the carpet

onto the earth 

in wonderful shimmering pieces

Free

alive

happy

changed.

Lilia Skelhorn grew up in the great lake regions of Ontario with a deep sense of belonging and solidarity to the natural world, and in the different landscapes of the West Coast, she discovered these senses again as a woman. She is a visual artist and creatrix of many sorts based in Salt Spring Island, currently working to build her artistic career under her small umbrella company “Müthermouth.” She tries to document her vast love for the planet in her writings and art, and if not obvious through her works, admits she has romantic feelings towards the sun.