White Dragon in the Snow

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