my secret / footprints, / dark blue / hard metallic
Once there was a language of women. Once / there was script for / “world” and “womb” outside / the characters of men.
It’s only late in life you understand / sacrifice: the bees died trying / to save the blooming world.
You gathered lions around you, on your head and in your gilt clay heart. Like a grubby child collecting iridescent scarab shells in Jericho.
When the world goes / up in flame—even as the ash settles / to scar the skin—we go on in wonder
Christ entered the water / here, stepping from the cubic / shore.
Look at / the rows of children / instantly orphaned / crying Mami, Papi— / those long vowels / of perennial mourning
