here is the perfect pitch for your own song
here are your eyes deciphering your own hieroglyph
here is the outerspace of your breath
the flame of your constellation

this is the poem you write yourself
the womb for your birthing
the breasts for your nurture

this is your poem

let us pretend
I do not write it for myself
false Atabey for no birth by water
to hear you say
it's true
it joins us
washes us of pain
ransoms our alienations
makes me not fool
not madwoman
but poet

here is the gift
take now
here is the tree in your middle
the flowering of your fingers
the milk from your breasts
the bursting of your loins

close your eyes upon Coaybey
redeem yourself

you may close your eyes
but still you hear
rejoice, here is the croon of the lover
tendered from the middle range of the chords

you may close your eyes
but not your skin
here are the hands to anoint you
the infant head to fill you
the birth embrace to grip you

you may close your eyes
but not those of the watching child
in your gut
here is the good mother
feeding its endless hunger

you may close your eyes
but not the urges of your limbs
to run, to brachiate, to dance, to fly
here are your wings

here is the midwife for your vision
the craft for your dream

o you may close your eyes
but not the riddle of your voices
not the fire
of your yearning
to come alive

and here it is
your life

push it from your womb



as if you were free