SLUMBERING HEARTS, PART 1
She danced in the moonlight when I first saw her, Silver laced lines weaving in the shadows of October. She is the one I remember.
It’s here I caught her gaze.
Her attention swayed to me and looked at my rags, my tattered shoes, my unkempt nails, and very old pants.
I cowered.
My eyes only saw beauty in her meekness, but I felt naked and exposed to her glow.
It was an Orange flame under brittle bones and pain. Her light glowed and cast shadows from her heart within a cage.
I could see it.
It was filled with hollow rage, but within the space the warm glow of Orange rays revealed my face.
No kisses stolen, and no intent.
It’s here I felt present.
I awoke.
In my heart and in between a beat, I lost my sleep. A darkened face, and a memory of a silver lace.
My wounded lover, my closest star above me, that's where you hover, if I could just whisper.
But I hide it in the Bliss of my Dreams, where I say in my slumbers, “All because of Sleeps.”
—Kalli, Mother of Heretics
03.17.22
SLUMBERING HEARTS, PART 2
Moon-kissed under silver glows, it was the hour known to both. A familiar rose; with romance on her neck, like an abyss on her throne.
I fell into her space.
Like a beast in a race— her gasps of the night and the echoes of her cry, for years at a time across black desert skies.
I lowered my heart.
Not to touch the earth or to feel the warmth, but to guide her in without remorse.
Here at last, formless in the night, panting and showing my bite.
Folds of heat sheltered me.
A quiet serenity in the orange rust, faded hues but a sated touch.
A howling gape and a gripping rain like an ocean of violet lust.
—Kalli, Mother of Heretics
04.16.22
Reflection
These pieces were written in 2022, but I chose it as a place to start. I feel it captures how I write.
I used to write like this often—small bursts of shadows shared on Twitter, offerings made in fragments and prayers. But now I want to go deeper. This space is for the slow burn.
Here, I’ll be sharing more of my poetry. I’ll also be writing about my internal journey, both as a mother, a heretic, and an artist—my own sense of walking by spirit.
If you're reading this, welcome.
If you feel seen here, stay.
And if your dreams sometimes disturb you and you ache in rhythm—this is your home, too.
Kalli, Mother of Heretics