My dead eye is a sacred vestibule
an old eggshell, a single reach
of stem rise and leaf spread.
Her body is the mother of me.
A body married to expansion.
A body I can not control.
A body that swells to perpetuate.
Seed in me becomes
the surface of the moon split on it’s quarter.
I am a mirror of darkness.
My left body remembers
a solitary voyage
through the firmament
a diaphragm pulling air down to root.
Each hair bristle, each naked dusk
calls back. Expand.
Expand and come into form.
