Mother, thy womb is wooden.
In the nine months I have been held captive
in this minimally lighted world I have carved
The things I thought I heard you think:
A bird's beak, a melted candle, a tear-stained cloth,
an angel's feather, a banshee's scream, a thunder,
a distant family of mountains, and a passerby's tattoo.
Do not mind the morning pains.
It is perhaps merely my chisel-fingers
recording an unseen world according
to thy thoughts--- and my, the light is flooding
my fortress, it must be
time to meet you.
Motherrrr.
2006.jun.08
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