You waited seven thousand years
for me, Mater, fons amoris, with your red-wine bones,
in cat-gold bed, a suggestion of sweat
on the sheets as if recalling the sea from which
you have risen, jaws first, in your gills
the blood of fishes and foam, your body a substrate.
I came with bows, unacquainted
with grief, like the wind that dreams in the
branches, I let the harmonies of the grove cling to my skin,
thinking of nothing and I let the hawk
fly through me like an arrow hammered
of iron, history, epoch, all waters, flowing.
I picked shells from your hair, from your face
the marks of your rising, from between your toes
old skin, relics of the past, chrysalsises,
whose fossilised time always bites on emptiness, and drank
to get drunk, set you on my knees like a cello, and still
some animal cried out, the melody of creation, the dance.