walking in a red silk skirt to
match my bloody feet, I am
cooking. Brought to fruition
daily; he says I’d say God bless ya
but he already did. somewhere
a smear of pride trickles down
a clock
a gate in the desert, one no one
can see til you walk through it.
the tip of the tail of the ox, I,
would never pray for this life,
and yet,
I’ve illumed. the fox and the hare
each spinning the seeker’s wheel,
magic flecked with mud. My margins
have grown so belligerent I am
leaking down the sides, glutted
with insight. God is pregnancy,
the ever contraction,
an omnibirth. The Gordian knot
and the sword
Today I am cooking, I am a moth
and a web and I wrestle outside of
myself to an imperceptible rhythm;
an infinite well, one with breaths
all the way down.