Hollow

A hollow runs up your spine

piercing the heart

of Andromeda,

threading the serpent coils

of Laniakea, 

dazzling silken darkness

that makes all creatures

quiver and beat

with a weightless kiss,

a whirling of 

eyes, atoms, stars 

into something like a nest, 

scraps of twig and berry 

twined by some great 

wingéd mothering

whose warm breath 

ruffles emptiness

over the smooth blue egg

of the sky.

What's inside?

What's inside of that?

We only pretend to know. 

Call it the ancient dawn

that has not yet broken,

holding in each tiny 

seedling grail

the wine of April.

Call it the galaxy's

embryonic curve,

the curl of little hands,

petals shaping themselves

into a dream

at the tip of the stamen.

Or say those infant beams

are gazing through all centers

from the mirror of your face

into the mirror of mine

until our lips commingle

in an ecstatic catastrophe, 

the wanton whimsical kiss

that is everywhere.

Look up, look down.

To ascend is to fall

in all directions at once –

the teaching 

of the wounded rose.

Water color by Marney Ward