No, thank you
to the world that dawned
the morning of my birth
in sapphire hues of red; it
raised me up from its molten
womb and called me daughter,
until the day my curls twisted
round treetops and I could
trace the Sun against my
palm, counting the rays that
colored my skin alive like
the earth trembling beneath my
feet and I could sing,
if I wanted, a voice of shuddering
pine needles in a tempest: No,
thank you, mother, I am
born of liquid earth to burn
the sky.
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