Poem: "There is no quantification of smallest powers which propel."

A Territory of the Miracle

Cool the crude map
fired in your dark palm. 

Slip around 1 corner,
then 2, 3, next
4. 4 corners squaring off
with Fate: It’s a start.
(Times x, a lifetime.) 

Now a dusty path to
green sorrow growing shoots.
Stop short of the bog.
A shape will approach,
reach for, comfort,
your weeping hand.

That outshining ray of
sun with tumbled motes,
spinning cities—
take the keys—
incorporeal shrines glinting,
imbuing strength
to leave the haze.

A territory of the miracle. 
There is no quantification
of smallest powers
which propel. 

Sarah Sarai. First published in Fringe, issue 26. All issues archived courtesy of Sundress Publications.

Fringe Magazine's Map Issue, 3 of my poems (backstory below)

Three poems of mine, "We're always in a room." "A Bullish Run into Chambers" and "A Territory of the Miracle" are in Fringe Magazine's Issue 26, on maps.

"We're always in a room." came about because I always was in a room, in my dreams, until I wasn't. And why not? I love rooms. They're nesting places and remind me of framed narratives (such as The Decameron or The Arabian Nights--stories within larger stories).

"A Bullish Run into Chambers" was a response to a comment I read and disagreed with--about the phenonenon of those public flower homages to honor the dead we may not know, schoolchildren or John Jr. The comment I disagreed with insisted such tributes are shallow. I say they are not shallow.

And finally, "A Territory of the Miracle" was born in Seattle, best as I can remember, making it a long-termer of a poem. I absolutely remember the image I had, of a figure rising from a bog, and my understanding it offered, or wanted, connection.

Also, I just remembered having returned from my mother's terrible operation in Los Angeles. I remember thinking about It All and wondering if there was reason to live through any more and then watching a dust mote, as I lay in bed, living in a ray of sun. I remember understanding that was enough.

Thanks to Fringe Poetry Editor, Anna Lena Phillips, for having a sharp eye and access to a front porch.