The other night I was going through my work, and came across a poem/prose piece I wrote a good ten years ago. Don’t worry, I’m not going to post the three pages of that piece here, but I found this stanza interesting:
All around our pink stucco house grow
gardenia, jasmine, honeysuckle,
I sit on the red concrete porch at dusk
and stroke the waxy leaves
of the yellowing brown gardenias,
crush the tiny twinkly jasmine petals,
lifting the tips of my fingers to my nose
inhaling and inhaling until I can’t smell anymore
I eat the crushed petals
I suck the juice from the honeysuckle
I hear crickets and freeway noises.
My mother and I look for spaceships in the night sky.
Where did that come from?
Then there’s this stanza:
I can taste the smoky scent of Natasha’s incense,
the tiny cones ashy red in the bronze turtle
that holds these foreign sticks of scents
I keep my gaze on the thin yellow line of light
that glows under the bedroom door.
I know if I do this long enough I will float through wood,
through Chinese red enamel,
past Wanda and Teresa and Nancy and Natasha
into the night, past the pine tree that guards our corner . . .
~ from The Mother’s Club, Regan Lee
I found it interesting I would include these paranormal/anomalous events in my childhood so causally in an otherwise not paranormal piece.
That last stanza refers to, of course, my many journeys with “them” -- the unseen but seen entities who came for me on many nights, floating me out the door and into the large tree on the corner, where I’d then go into their ship. It always stops at this point however: after I’m in the tree, and see their ship above me, waiting for me, that’s it. All I remember.