Bassinet of Another Christ

Eyelids fluttering with dreams and images of yawning light.

Giver says / she is bewitched / go below the roots

A thousand years is the same as a thousand miles. In the span of distance, no one is afraid of body as altar or luscious words as incense. Yet I think we are called to sew together the gap – unburden the moon's cold light – face a never ending dawn, shoulder to shoulder, then breast to breast.

Sensation as mother and how difficult she is to overcome. What is seen is not everything and in fact, perhaps it is nothing.

“We are save by hope; but hope that is seen is not hope; for who hopeth for that which he seeth?” Romans 8:24

Love as the bassinet of another Christ.

4 a.m. walks – suburban sprinklers in the dark – sound of American flags shifting in a light breeze. Kora is aging too quickly for these jaunts but waits at the door for a cool-down lap. Not a single turtle has crossed my path this summer but feathers – oh my god.

There is no “after you” and so I ask myself: what is missing? My heart is in my pocket; what's in yours?

Concert ticket as a bookmark. Music as liberator. Woman as redeemer.

The phenomena of release is complicated by my affinity for the sensual, though I will say, this sense or awareness is not strictly outfacing or outward. Yet I, as a woman, have been coerced. Stop telling me what to do. Stop telling me to 'be good'.

I'm so tired of yesterday and tomorrow; be with me today.