carry it down to the guest room,
wide in my hand,
sturdy construction soft curves lidless
clear—placed near sunshine window
reflect
refract
make visible.
take a sip and wonder how many.
how many bloody beaten burned black buried torn cracked open with rock and cock and shoe,
all shining too bright to be tolerated?
and then
how many little sisters of Moon?
how many of that She who sits halfway in shadow?
that She:
delivering our baby builders,
easing them back across the river,
soothing aches along the way
from first crossing-over to last
how many Witches ground up with spit
until sticky and smooth—
mortar for bricks?
my mother’s mason jar carries water
up from Below.
take a sip and wonder why.
why fear this Below?
because i don’t get how
something can be both
powerful
and silent?
because any time i
am silent enough to hear it
speak,
it only seems to say two things:
“you can’t tell me what to do.”
and
“i’m still alive.
i’m still alive and you’ll
never
fucking
kill me.”
