
Arcana II: The Question of control
by Pey Pey Oh
Magic’s about taking that stuff of the universe,
Molding it like putty. Here I am again,
Free of self-sacrifice but not the pain
of balance, doomed to traverse the fine line;
With or without the blindfold, it still hurts.
The lady with the scales, she has to be
My dark sister, can you see our arms shake, tense
with the ache of responsibility,
The right angle of the lion’s jaw holds him still,
Twin shooting pains from wrist to elbow: I have the beast’s
Hot breath, his slippery tongue –
She, the cold weight of metal: knowing
How to thrust right-handed must upset
The level poise of her cool demeanour.
The sun shines upon our like endeavour,
I may be small but I’m strong,
Sometimes I don velvet gloves to disguise
My steely grip on the task at hand.
She puts on her pretty dress and tiara,
No one guesses at her ruthlessness.
Maybe we don’t need to advertise
The speed of our response,
Or our boundary’s star.
The answer to this question
Is a bound man hanging from a tree that’s the world.
His willingness astounds me.
I know if he stays there long enough
he’ll hear all the answers
whispered to him by that serpent
endlessly devouring itself.
The advice is simple:
Balance. Nurture. Be Yourself. Patience. Trust
the High Priestess.
She’s the poster girl on my wall,
the rightness
coalesced,
The woman with the book.

© Pey Pey Oh 2009
Listen to this poem:

The bound man is terrific. Swaying in the world while the stars whirl around him.
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