Gush

 

Let the hollow in your belly rhyme
with the space in blue agave seeds.
Gush out of the earth, flinging droplets
of unfathomable darkness.
Above and below change places.
Night is your loam.
Before she died your mother
only said one prayer:
“al Norte.”
Someone left a bottle
of Pepe Lopez beside you,
empty as the sky
where stars get dizzy surrendering
to your bundle of cries,
you who remain
fixed, without a center.
Trust what was already here
before anyone said,
"let there be light."
Turn loss into fertility.
Become the abysmal spring
of all that you desire.
How can the well be thirsty?  

Photo: ancient Indian step well