MEDITATIO by Eileen Stelter

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While the world is meditating I sit cross-legged in the smell of home and look up into the drag I took of death diffuse into the ambience when shyly inspiration comes out of its hiding and pierces through my pale-ish skin drawing blood with which I write a primal verse onto stone pavement Muse guiding me and showing me

my North.

My life’s draft

designed globally,

my mind

engineered internationally,

I catch splinters of home everywhere I go.

Anxiety rising like Atlantic tide

when you tried to make me

83 million.

If Europe is Zeus’ disobedient daughter

why would I

let myself be governed by a man’s 19th century desk invention

living off collective remembrance of war?