Sultana of the Sun,
Light your candles.
Hold them against your earthly casting
Until it awakens and begins to melt.
Watch it as it seeps into current,
Separating, coalescing, separating anew.
What is the color of a waxen womb
That sculpts and molds
Its own exodus toward atonement?
Feel your awareness blossom into
A procession of softened flesh
Coruscating with the abandoned sway
Of particles infused with
Move with them through darkened moons
And pristine, sunswept capes.
Nurture them as the dust that
Scurries along each moistened strand
Of your sea-silken hair,
Seeking refuge upon the tender peaks of
Mind the brittle bones of rhythms immemorial.
Find your ghosts and careen with them.
Render supplication with coffrets bearing
Lubricious gazes and oblique steps
Toward dimensionless borders.
Unearth the wings you once buried in shame.
Scream until your voice coincides
With the transcendent cry of the original drifting womb.
Meet me where the current ends
And we’ll enter it together,
And bathe in its igneous expulsion.
If you are tired you can rest here
Upon this tuft of sand.
And tomorrow you can fly
Back through the tunnels your graceful reveries have fashioned,
Back into the arms of a lotus you once knew,
Planted while you were asleep
By a spry and expectant Dawn.
Art: “Day of the God (Mahana No Atua)”