“the high priestess of soul” by Sasha in her old bedroom at Bowmore

Friday November 16, 2018
11:03pm
5 minutes
Universal Soldiers
Andrea Warner

My mother is beautiful
in the thickness of grief
My mother
bless her ravaged heart
her oatmeal-making
her devotion

People don’t talk
about how it smells
(salty wet acidic)
about how it looks
(pale shrunken)
about how it feels in the bones
(heavy empty ragged)

I awaken with clenched teeth
and a prayer between them
Glory Bound
sweat on my forehead
butterfly kicks
in my womb

“the high priestess of soul” by Julia at her desk

Friday November 16, 2018
12:53pm
5 minutes
Universal Soldiers
Andrea Warner

Thank god she was playing that night on the stereo. I needed someone familiar who wasn’t going to steal the room any more than it had been stolen. I feel fine saying that now. I let it happen. She played and I cried and I closed my eyes and saw beautiful pulsing humans dancing in the trunk of a timeless tree. They swayed. I inhaled them. I asked if it was her voice that was hitting that chord in me or if it was an instrument reaching a note I couldn’t understand. Nobody knew what I meant but I knew it was her. She’s the one who invented that sound. That saving sound. I thought if I had been in a room without its parts removed it would have been obvious to everyone. I wondered if I could close my eyes and stay there all night until I fell asleep. Nobody thought I would be able to do that either.