Wake Up!
Mira Black • October 27, 2026
Dedicated to Laila Biali
I am learning
how to lift the notes
of a story that changed me,
find ways that might save the greatest love I’ve ever known from disappearing completely.
Among strangers, I offer a new dance
so those who do not know the dark thing I carry think I’m ok.
Ive come to find small moments and safe spaces when I can almost accept what God did.
Last night was such a space
where an angel opened her mouth,
sharing so much grace it gathered every broken heart beneath her light.
We refused to move,
afraid to break the spell
pouring from her hands.
Ringing out like magic.
This Woman.
She is tenderness and stone,
wielding chaos like a drum,
striking frozen ponds
until the water answers.
A wildness rushed
through my careful plans
for approval,
for manners,
and me just surviving in public.
Her invitation cracked my façade as she sang out:
loving too deeply was never my fault,
and all my weeping
when the truth arrived
will not be punished.
And so I let myself cry,
a little bit,
in a room full of strangers,
because this was her house now,
where all of me could enter whole.
Could she see the tender place
my heart keeps cupped
against the weather,
the hollow that opens
when I cannot bear
to be alone?
In the thrumming
of her heart becoming ours,
I almost forgave Love
for breaking me.
Open.
Something ancient rose,
waiting for a tone
strong enough to call it out.
I long for her to see
the power in her hands,
the healing that she gives
by letting her true nature sound.
I wonder whether she feels
that same love turning inward,
raw and unspent,
in a darkening hotel room
counting down the hours until she can hold her son again.
Would she withhold
what she needs,
afraid someone else
would receive less,
confusing inhalation for greed?
Did we fill her cup with the tease of unknown applause & discarded tickets stubs or
does she know the healing power pulsing from her to them to me to them and back to her repeated like butterflies painting poems on the wind?
I hope she knows we feel the radiant brilliancy of spontaneous composition
sacrificing everything for us to feel a touch of greatness offered
even
in
the silence.
~MIRA
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Logan Crane Nov 204-899-3921-May30th 2024
IT’S AN EXCLUSIVE CLUB OF SEVERAL BILLION
Wake up, you slumbering Life. You have grown too familiar with the lie that keeps you fed but never nourished. Too comfortable inside the status quo, that well-decorated room where nothing grows but everyone says, isn’t this enough? Wake up like the first time your lover smiles and something secret begins to unfold between my words and your hidden place. Once I have tasted the sound of your voice between my lips, it is almost as if Life itself might finally kiss me. Make a wish of me. Make a choice. Make a move. Say my name like you mean it and prove me wrong for believing I am unlovable, as if you could. As if Love would ever agree to become a witness against me. Still, this mind screams inside the body, pulling thought from thought, knot from knot, trying to solve the ache with another plan. Caught in the old mistake: confusing the chase for happiness with the courage to be alive. Empty hands reach for the sky, but the sky does not explain itself. Morning comes. Your eyes doubt. Your body knows. And there it is, the bloody contrast between who you are, what you want, and the life you keep pretending is close enough. At least your feet still tell the truth. One step. Then the staggering next. This is how waking comes. Not as a choir. Not as lightning. Not as someone finally choosing you. But as the unbearable mercy of seeing clearly what you can no longer betray. The pulse runs wild. The teeth rattle. The skin rises. The muscles strain against all the silence you trained them to carry. Hold on to the procession that pulled you from the soft grave of almost enough. Do not mistake the dream for freedom. Do not mistake the familiar for home. Do not mistake being wanted for being known. Listen. The song in your head hurts because it is true. And all you know for certain is this: you have not been honest in far too long. So wake up, you slumbering Life. Wake up before the lie learns your voice and starts calling itself Love. ~ MIRA
I spent years trying to outrun the darkness. As though healing were a race. Then one ordinary morning I noticed my attention. How it kept returning to the same abandoned house. The same hand unwound from mine. Naked intimacies with fire, ignoring the burn. As though love were something I had to earn. The same cup where your lips last touched it. The same wound begging to become my only religion. No one told me then I was never responsible for the darkness laid upon me. Only for the quiet miracle as my attention remembers to love me as I am. Not to force. Not to run. Just... stay. The kind that sits beside the dark without becoming it. The kind that remembers there is more sky than storm. The kind that notices a bird improvising her song even while the heart is still breaking. Perhaps awakening is nothing more mysterious than this. Love looking so gently at suffering until suffering forgets to follow me home. ~MIRA
Dedicated to a beautiful Soul walking beside me from across the veil.
Do not call me unattached because I have learned not to beg at every closing door. This heart has not become clean. It has become weathered. There are names I no longer say out loud that still change the temperature of my body. There are hands I have released that still arrive in dreams as if the soul keeps its own appointment book. I know how to pray without building a prison around the Beloved. I know how to open and still let the river move on. This did not come from holiness. It came from loss. From repetition. From standing in the aftermath with my nervous system on fire like a city skyline bright with lightning I have mistaken longing for prophecy. I have called absence care. I have watched my body reach for what my spirit had already surrendered. So no, I am not untouched. I am touched everywhere. By grief. By beauty. By the unbearable intimacy of being human with no guarantee that love will stay where I place it. Still, I refuse the immaculate heart. Let me be marked. Let tenderness leave evidence. Let love ruin the small false self that thought safety meant never opening again. At three in the morning when memory walks through me wearing someone else’s voice, I do not call it weakness. I call it proof. Something entered. Something mattered. Something sacred found a door in me and left it open. ~MIRA #brave #canadian #poet
#griefjourney
Do you ever hear God? I mean truly hear the voice of silence louder than the ruckus across the street. Like thunder Like proof Like God is simply sitting next to you? Do you ever hear God whispering more loudly than the storm? Sometimes the depth of love inside your own heart shining, breaking opening, folding, smashing, like a lake against the rocks under the full moon torrents days before the rain? Do you ever hear God say your name? Not the one you were born with, nor the one your parents claimed. The other one. The secret one. The name only your Soul remembers when the world stops. Please tell me when you notice magic rising suddenly to kiss you for no reason except that you are here. I used to hear God. I used to feel warmth gather around me like I was the most cherished daughter, swimming in clear water, certain of the song singing to the wind. I used to know the words by heart. When magpies landed at my door, I knew they were for me. A certain melody mystical messengers made for me from my Beloved. I knew the veil was thin enough to let the dead kiss me sometimes. I knew the world was speaking in riddles and rhymes I could understand. Some call darkness failure demanding light when I am also mud, blood, hunger, river, ash, and a new moon sky. I have listened too long to people who fight over God as if God is a house only they can afford. And when I ask them about God, they laugh like I have said something only children do. When I ask them about God, they turn away afraid of demons, while I burst into a million pieces of light, realizing I’d been listening to God all along. ~ MIRA
I am ready to loosen my grip on the illusions I carried though these arms grew strong dragging every fear that named itself love Still something ancient calls me to make room for the tools a crone requires She asks me to set down that carbon-copy collection of who I was supposed to marry refuse the costumes I was taught to tally seductress saviour silenced witness whore the scorned woman still sharpening her sword against herself But these hands now forged through fire and blood hold a softer thing a soul stitched from silk and mud called from dark rooms where grief learned how to sing Still the maiden asks why this path chose her the mother bleeds without a child to name the longing woman still trembles at the rescuers song But no one is coming now and strangely that truth has become holy because the story keeps unfolding beyond romance beyond survival into something vast enough to hold all of me Last night I dreamt in full colour birds everywhere winged messengers crossing impossible skies gone were the men who betrayed me gone were the women who vanished when I needed them most I stood alone among rot ruin and medicine Then the great white bird came massive silent radiant it stepped toward me without fear as if it already knew me You are free it said without speaking You are clean You are ready And then the bird bowed slowly deliberately to me My body filled with tears old instinct reached outward searching for someone to witness this holiness but something wiser returned me to the feathers to the moment I fell to my knees not in shame in recognition And the great bird still bowing gave its final breath as though surrender itself had come to feed me and suddenly I understood some things must die so the soul can start kneeling before its own Mastery -MIRA
It's always been a lot of work to be me. To carry the terrified little girl inside my head who still will not listen to a word I have said. A vigilant, visceral witness holding on to every bit of business this chaos called Life has handed her. Forgiving broken men. Taking the blame for the ways they came to abuse her. This morning, while storming the terrible castle I built for her, I noticed something new. I noticed how easily I pet the demons drawn to my lap, how tenderly I feed them, even after they attack and leave me bleeding on whatever floor they abandon me on. The same floor I swept every day, mopping up the footprints of my father muddying the face of my lover. Forgetting I was never meant to save any of them. Today, I gave back the guilt I swallowed. I told that little girl she was done holding on to that evil. I got this, I told her, and knew it was Truth. For the first time, she believed in the proof of my presence. You do not have to fight for love anymore. Let go of the fever forged in the darkness, the one that left you alone as if your only choice was to be used for your magic until your witchery dried up with nothing left for you. Stop hurting yourself for a muse. I found you, dear one. Fifty years following crumbs from the table of Love, calling it enough when it never was, and here you are, still alive inside me. Nothing broken. Only buried. Nothing taken. Only carried for far too long. Set down the old idea that you do not belong. I am here, my love, my daughter, my best friend, my song. Turn away from the lie that you are lost and alone. I Am here. ~ MIRA