—Spell for Binding the Center to a Center
And when spiritually we are parched like the air
in fire season, laden with the things of this world
caught flame and heaved up into the atmosphere,
it is the earth that grounds us for the lightning strike:
our dam material, our plant medium, our brick paste,
our fortress against dying, our mother’s greens
plucked in winter and served in soup, our fodder
and feed lots, our field of unknowing and enfolding,
that we come back to: the dirt of churchyards and
sideyards, the dirt with metal in it, the dirt with
oxygen in it, the dirt with water in it, the dirt
with clay in it, the dirt with salt and sand and silt,
the soil, the loam, the sod, the clod, the gravel,
the mud, the muck, the groot, the grit, the ground.
Say, “I am my earth in the way I want to see it,
from the hot core to the frigid reaches, large at the
equator where it’s luscious and wrapped in silky
clouds, puffy thunderheads, belts of rain and snow.
I am my earth that nurshes. I am my earth abundant.
I am my earth in a sheath of green and blue raincoat.”
Hunker down in your earth. Listen to the death
in your earth. The life. Listen to the earth under
your feet. Sit down in a field. Feel the way your ass
is supported by the earth. Stretch out against it. Let
your legs sprawl over the soft earth. Lie down
on the hard earth and press against it. Touch its dirt
the way you would touch a lover. Speak your secrets
in the dust. Talk about how long you’ve been together
and how you’ve both tried to save each other. Save
each other. Every day come back to the earth and tell
it you’re sorry, you’ll do better, you’ll bring your child,
your lover, your mother back to visit this spot, this place
where you remembered for once, like your papa always
told you, you remembered where you came from
and how good it felt to be at home in the world today.
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This article appeared in the March 2026 print edition of the magazine.
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