She Travels Now

A tree whose trunk was riddled with stars emerged from my mother’s body. From the songs within lightning, its branches, from the eyes of unborn dreamers, their leaves. Her lips became flowers; her hips — heaven’s own peculiar egress into time and form. Her bones comprised a sacred tower whose inner resonances finally shattered it — and the fertile white remains continuously generated astonishing creatures without limit.

At her feet, those perfect roots that shall never walk again, they sacrificed science. Its essence ran like mercury, in silver rivulets, toward a pool where the constellations danced and rang in starry sequences. Now, her grave is everywhen, anyplace, this specific sequence of letters, your eyes, and the victorious between of pulsings that become the ardent wonder shared by distant hearts in dear communion.