I
the road lies before me—
a dark promise, a yellow
remembering—the bowl
is empty, the bowl is full—
I do not know what to do
with my hands anymore.
II
the crows collect around
the rib of the lamb, they
peck at the dusk of its
belly, shred the morning
of its body, undo its
eyes of rubble—where
do I begin to rearrange
my life—where light limps?
III
hello, Mother, hello
Small Mother, hello
brother spinning
in the pure light
of before dawn, hello
brother making a hymn
out of twigs—dream
opening itself up to
purple light—hello
magic of golden cowries—