Poetry by Beate Sigriddaughter
She does not believe in obedience to complications. When she plays her flute, she doesn’t play because it’s hard. She plays because it’s beautiful, like singing, even if it is ridiculously easy. Explaining this to experts is a challenge. Sometimes it takes days before she can resume reality with unassuming confidence. She is old enough to follow her own rules, but often still hesitates at the door of permission without knocking, and she still has trouble finding a safe haven for her longing. Once upon a time she woke up celebrating trees outside her window or the scent of cedar after rain and sparkles at the tips of junipers. She contemplates the lord of good intentions with a trembling candle in her hand, like Psyche looked at Eros long ago. Just like a simple tune, she finds him beautiful, and bravely whispers to herself: Let him sleep. He needs his rest, trapped in his fears. Every restraint, though, makes the future harder, like incessant rain as summer fades into the dreaded shapes of insignificance. She gathers scents and music, fragments of herself. People parade in her dreams, harmless like conundrums. Sometimes she dreams of perfume and all her misery is nothing more than being reasonably well loved. She readily admits she might have liked God but never got a chance. She never steals from others, not intentionally anyway. Now she must simply learn to master not stealing from herself.
Beate Sigriddaughter, www.sigriddaughter.net, lives in Silver City, New Mexico (Land of Enchantment), where she was poet laureate from 2017 to 2019. Her poetry and short prose are widely published in literary magazines. Recent book publications include a poetry collection, Wild Flowers, and short story collection, Dona Nobis Pacem.
