Ultra running and writing, writing about ultra running
My love is cochleate. I await
the slow reveal of that which is
hidden, always revisiting the dark
side of the moon as it changes phases.
I trace the spiral. The disorienting
turns swallowed by the whirlpool
of my mind, drowning in the wet slime
of my lover’s gyrating tongue.
The snail throws his darts: I love you—
like salt spilling. I recoil,
retreating into my shell. My past
is a pest. Memories reemerge
like snails during heavy rains.
Remembering those nights that spiraled
out of my control: wishing
for an escape as he spoke
in circles. His words disorienting
like an infection of snail fever
during a flood. Swelling waves
twisting my tongue into silence.
He released his shame into my
quiet weeping, salt stinging
dousing me in the sorrow of our
marriage bed like a fern beneath
the waterfall of his greed.
I made my escape, circling
as the condor does above
the throat of the canyon
where the currents whirl like
the vortex of an eddy, their funeral
in the sky after they feast
on the dead. Death spiral. Expanding
as it moves through time, hoping
for space to breathe in this helical
existence. I resign to the deliberate
glide of a snail. The wise walk
counterclockwise, a journey leading
back to source, movement from the inner
manifesting to the outer. A glimmer
of light shines onto the sacred spiral.