Come ashore, my winsome pilgrim, kiss the earth if you must. See how this collection of stolen bones becomes a wolf. Place your open hand there, and the delicate skin of your wrist supine, so that she may know your scent. Within salt circles, unlock this cage of skin with a hairpin. See the flesh burn away, until all that remains is the seashell. Place your ear gently against her heart, a memory of ocean. Take a lock of her hair; bind it with silk. Do not speak your intention. Bury it beneath the most fragrant tree in this garden, and remember to taste the wind. Dear pilgrim, now there is cause for prayer, even for one who has forgotten the words.

IN THE CITY, A NEW CONGREGATION FINDS HER

IN THE CITY, A NEW CONGREGATION FINDS HER

She keeps safe our memory when nothing’s committed to stone.
Sibilant selvedge woman, thread and knots talkstory woman.

She whose memories not paperbound, lover of midnight words.
Scrawled myth upon flesh woman, indigo testimony tattoo woman.

We bring her spirits we’ve captured in bottles.
Firewater woman, imbibes the spirits woman.

We bring her dried tobacco leaves and tea.
Exhales the word woman, full-moon weaving woman.

She looses her thick hair from its pins and coils.
Litany liturgy woman, stitching suture woman.

She settles into her favorite chair, she always begins like this.
Soul-gatherer woman, spiderweb songbird woman.

She breathes steam from tea, steeped stems and petals.
Piece and patchwork woman, down-home cookin’ woman.

She crushes anise stars, sweetens nightmare into reverie.
Stone by stone woman, singed and soot woman.

She cups glazed clay between cracked hands.
Silver-winged bird woman, riverine dream-filled woman.

She rubs together palms callused, she who conjures for us a feast.
Sugar tinctured moonwoman, twittering songstress moonwoman.

She whose eyes widen with black thundercloud and sea.
Salt luster sirenwoman, winter solstice madwoman.

She whose voice billows and peals, she whose eyes gaze nowhere.
Howling nomad madwoman, cut the bullshit madwoman.

Her lips release language not of paper sometimes (we think) she forgets.
Older than the ocean woman, sargassum and seashell woman.

She who has kept vigil always, she of the wing-kissed sunset.
Sipping starlight woman, before there was a nailed god woman.

EVE’S AUBADE

EVE’S AUBADE

Let rainbows arc and sprout from the base of my tongue and into your cupped palms, before the saltwater fishponds teem quicksilver, deep blue, and sunrise hues, before the aqueducts and irrigation ditches are sculpted into damp earth, before these mango groves are hewn, before these gravel paths ripen with fallen fruit. Before we part, breathe your song into me.