A Poem by Eve Chilali
A soft circle of anger overwhelms me:
Anger cannot be soft,
Anger cannot be round.
I don’t understand the assignment
I don’t want a shaman in on my pain.
None of this makes any sense to me.
Only words make sense to me.
So I will write my Shaman Sand Circle in words
Only in words can I write about my pain.
Around the edges there are words, reactions:
Flailing, hurting, throwing up, overeating, over dieting, running running running
Throwing my heart into others souls, trying to fix them up,
Trying too hard to change the unchangeables. Losing myself too easily.
Laughed at, scoffed at, shunned, pointed at for stupidity – the one, the one, the one
Weirdo. Freak. Divorced person. Beautiful woman. Working woman. Bitch.
I am exercising my rights as a sand circle maker.
Good bye you ass holes – to all the jerks, ass holes and freaks.
You know who you are. Not the kind-hearted souls who stuck by me
But the hardened hearts who thought they were better than me.
The sociopaths who tried to take advantage of me.
I actually don’t even want your names in my Sand Circle.
My sand circle should be mine, not yours.
All encompassing, this anger is, as it grows in me.
The idea of a Sand Circle in a crowded backyard where someone might see,
Seems ludicrous. I cannot share this with anyone. No one can see it.
The idea of a Sand Circle, to me, is a private letting go
I don’t know when and where I will be ready to let go.
How do you l e t I t a l l g o.
That which has defined me, whispered its rasping breath to me each morning.
That telltale terror that rises up in me at night, a chokehold on my heart.
That which has terrorized me for so long I cannot even count.
I want a nice, neat resolution, like a sand circle, yes,
but resolutions are not neat.
They are not clean, they are not binding,
And they do not come with a guarantee.
Eve Chilali is a writer living in New Jersey. Eve is most at home when she is in nature, unless it involves an assignment.