Someone used the radiance
pressed from your heart
as golden ink
to sketch the shapes
of the earth
on satiny blackness,
a cave painting
on womb walls
scrawled
by some slow spinning
unborn self
who still hides behind
your eyes.
He has not yet breathed.
To meet her,
you must drown in
the laughter sea.
They have no pronouns.
Therefore trees
jeweled in snow,
moss-furry stones,
mountains bathing their
wounds in a cloud,
newts darting
through sugary brook thaw,
the first hyacinth
offering dark purple vials
of Lethe sap,
and frolicking mice
just before dawn,
each, all, ever free
to leap out
and create themselves.
Watercolor by Beatrix Potter
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