Once I was a channel.
From ether through the wrist -
or sometimes straight to tongue -
words, a sudden rush.
I packaged up my work and felt alive,
full,
like a moon.
And now I sit and watch the eyelid show.
Orange,
moving slowly into brown.
Then curtains up to tapered, mani’d nails,
tick — tick — ticking on the counter,
where I separate the yolks from the whites,
and beat them into something I can stomach.
I wonder when it started,
this breath, pinched and torn off at the waist?
This plea to Pachamama,
to wait behind the line?
Isaiah with his wings, springs from the pack.
Surrendered in his arms,
a woman, out of reach.
