loan
holding hands,
fingers intertwined
sun warm on
your back
the sweet-tart taste
of fresh-squeezed
orange juice
slaking your thirst
splashing cool
stream water
on your face after
an autumn hike
the first, rich
scent of rain
on parched ground
after a dry spell
your precious body
your one and only
earth suit
all of it
all on loan
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
camaraderie
1976
hunched on a hard chair
in an airless room,
I cupped my head
in my hands and wept
to save his life
they would saw
through his breastbone,
his chest as small
as my open hand—
stop his heart,
rebuild the inside
staple him shut
a presence beside me
her hand a mere moth
dusting my arm
she murmured,
here—for you
offering a fresh-lit
Marlboro bearing
her kiss of lipstick
I accepted the gift
glancing up, four
others—all mothers,
waited
us, too, one said
anam cara
soul friend
the one
who phones
in the moment
you think of them
the one
who arrives
at your door
with love
in their gaze
the one
who offers
true silence
when your heart
aches
the one
who swings
you around
sharing
your joy
the one
who is present
when you weep
unstoppable
the one
who helps you
rise again
in peace
that one
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
slipstream
dogged and resolute
she was on the hunt—
not sure for what
but insistent in the search
she sought for spirit’s slipstream
like a cyclist seeks the wake
peddling behind a rider
to propel herself along
relieved to find her rhythm
with companions by her side
she rode into that vacuum
for something she called home
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
don’t borrow trouble
it’s an old saying,
don’t borrow trouble
I used to lie awake
and imagine dire
scenes—my son
in bullies’ hands
or worse—as though
the very picturing
could ward them off
it doesn’t save
us or them, this
perseveration,
it never quite happens
as I picture—
so why conjure
fifty ways your child
might come to sorrow
and all the suffering
that brings to you
instead, slip outside
tip your head until,
in the chill, dense dark,
you find the Milky Way—
imagine, just imagine!
how minuscule we are
soak that in until it fills
your bones—then
carry that enormity
back to bed
snuggle in the warmth
and drift to sleep
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
cup of oneness
imbibing the cup
cast some friends out,
called new ones in—
this, a necessary
purge
it bulldozed
old beliefs,
flipped my view
upside down
and rearranged
my very core—
in the rubble
of myself,
I dusted
off remains
reclaimed a skeleton
of kindness, found
bones of gratitude—
now, drink
some more
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the dark
I know the dark—
the anaconda
coils my body
throttles my breath
drowning for air
I tear at the thing
bloody my hands
wear myself out
it could take me
I turn toward
the dark, drink it in
move through it
tune my ear
is that a note?
finally the faintest
gossamer of chant
the coils writhe
and fall away
I gulp air, flee
toward the song
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
petrichor
as drops find
parched ground,
fragrance lifts—
first downpour
hint of beginnings
and mystery
camels know this
with flaring nostrils
over miles of sand
they scent moisture
move toward it
desert’s lifeblood
my petrichor is love
I catch a whiff—
my heart, dazed
by life’s ferocity,
opens
softened
once more
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
necessary grief
creatures, our cousins
gone by our hand
forests torched
overgrazed prairie
so much concrete
shamed for tears
taught to hide loss,
to shut down
instead, feel the weight
lodged in your bones
find a place
sacred to you
form a circle with stones
kneel—
grief your accomplice
to befriend
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
feel for it
At the end of my suffering there was a door—Louise Glück
turn around
dive in and down
no need for worry
nothing is safe
be curious instead—
feel around for
your inner
knots or gnarls
when you find one
soften your intent
sit with the snag
become its ally,
playmate and consort
it wants you—
you are its way
through
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the heart of the matter 