Extraordinary Machine

The blood is over, dirt dirt dirt and a new tree. The soil I scooped up in my cupped hands, the baby I fed at my breast. The warm wind blowing in. And what never ends.

I am certain I will wake, when it is time. I sleep very lightly, I eat as much as I can.

I contain multitudes, and so do my breasts. And there are no contradictions

I call you out on a mild day in May, I call you out like a sudden bird, I call you out with whispers and bells, I call you out with strong hands and slippery limbs, I call you out by way of ocean-born winds, I call you out north to south, I call you out to what is yours, which is me and whatever is mine

Good trick

I’m laying in bed in sheets wet with amniotic fluid, 8 am mourning dove and hummingbirds, a few gentle aches radiating. I’m trying to rest but I’m very excited. I’ve eaten toast.