Jesus Sepulveda
I was the one who came back from the dead after overdosing on mushrooms
a winter afternoon when I was thirty
and gazed at the snowy mountains of Ashland
I was with the spirits leaving my old man in his wheelchair
when he was not yet in a wheelchair
the night I followed the ritual of the sacred fire with ayahuasca
I was the one who opened his arms
and let the earth pull him down
with a multitude of arms that are now earth
I jumped into the invisible river that makes things clear
between translucent worms and goldfish
and saw the summer stars move like a living fabric
I saw the spiral of our origin
where the sea lions jump out of the water
and the deer bury their paws
I wrote this was a dream
when I woke up far from the geometry of the yellow room
where diamond cats are embedded in the night’s skin
But I’m now in mourning because I saw the open tunnel my mother left
the pale morning when she fell ill
and the siren’s scream took her down the funnel that ends at the morgue
But we are now in mourning because the mouth of my father
no longer pumps the ventilator
on the cold tiles of the hospital that scream like a wounded animal
Now they both cross the smokescreen
that outlines the mystery of our daily eyes
and lights up the night like a blue dream
Now they are shadows that guard the corners
where the music of childhood is heard
and the ticking on the walls remains silent
Now I don’t look at the fragile anatomy
nor do I let myself fall in a wild garden with petals in the rain
or follow the sun at noon when the dragonflies dye the river green
I wake up now in the light blue room
that I share with my son
while a numinous presence watches us like a white dragon in the snow