Candle Flies

I was named beneath the rustling treetops of a grove
of apple trees, by a dove that landed on my mother’s
shoulders the day I was born. In my childhood
memories, I see my bare feet splashing through puddles
of rainwater and my pale skin glistening in silvery
moonlight; I tried to catch the beams once, and wrap them
around my fingers like celestial cotton candy.

I have a younger brother now. He looks up at
me sometimes through his thick lashes, the ones that
catch the snowflakes in December. He smiles a
toothless grin and calls me his luciérnaga, his firefly,
because I am the light that makes the dark go away.

Tattoo

I wanted to understand Timeless,
wanted to wrap my arms around Infinity
like the rough feel of stiff cotton
hugs on Thanksgiving. I wanted to
brand Eternity to my skin so
the passing years would never dull
and when Memory is peering
into a lidless mirror, I want to
touch my fingertips to the glass, Forever
seeping into my
bones.

Atlas

the world tasted like
dust from a high shelf, old
and forgotten like
crinkled maps. i remember
holding a globe between
my palms and whispering
as it spun on its axis, singing
lullabies to sisters in
asia. can you hear me?

Genesis

No one knew how He
spent his time weaving
patterns in the sky,
knitting gossamer threads
of moonrays and sunbeams,
the silken chords of night.

And when He pricked His finger,
no one ever knew that the first
cries of life - that shook the earth,
trembled the mountains - were

the hand of God.

Luna

when i was a child i never
raised a hand to strike the
moon

touch her cheek
bones, feel day break
over her charred edges. she
is bluebell queen damning
frost with a touch of
winter orchids

beneath her whitewashed stone
like her pearlescent tear
drops striking granite. her skin
lace was a womb for
mother earth to sing her
songs, cry heaven to a late-
blooming rose

she is the prodigal
daughter of an orchid
petal, birthing the sun
in secret. i am edges crisp
and charred by your
light

Prelude

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.