Columbia Communion – a poem by Kayden Vargas

Columbia Communion
A lady bug
lands on my finger —
Red, yellow, and black, a smiling face.
A leaf falls;
The river begging it home.
When I die,
scatter me splintered
into the water.
We are one and the same,
merely formed into different shapes.
And for once I am not afraid
of the scattering.
So mundane it is sacred -
My bones, feral foundations.
My body, carpentry of cathedrals.
My breasts, sanguine stained glass windows.
My breath, a waving willow.
My ribs, anointed altars
My scars, a haunted hallelujah.
My voice, a change in tempo.
The whole ocean in one drop.
My blood, crimson confirmation -
I am that I am that I am.
My clitoris, the red lamp calling holy home.
My orgasm, transubstantiation.
My eyes, the vine that climbs to climax -
Circling cemetery walls -
Full of careful clergy, crucified saints, and careless Christians
who don’t know ancient cathedrals when they see one.
My genome, sacred synergy.
My body, trans tabernacle
We worship at its edges.
Another leaf falls,
Ripples the rio with gentle grace.
When I die,
Scatter me whole in this holy water;
One and the same -
Forever Calling me home.
I am unafraid of the scattering.
One day you’ll see me,
This reckless reckoning.
This trans cathedral.

Dr. Kayden Vargas (they/them) is a nonbinary psychologist by day and poet by moonlight. They enjoy utilizing psychological, religious, and spiritual themes. They are originally from Brewster WA, and their longest lasting love is the Columbia River. They currently reside as an activist, scholar, and therapist on Yakama Nation land.

1 Comment

  1. charleshaddox says:

    A lovely, sacral, healing poem, filled with light and hope!

    Liked by 1 person

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