XVI

My mother tongue is
The silver-footed imprints of mountains
It is the wild compass of the heart’s map
(somehow both vast and crumpled;
dancing, and longing.)
It is bespoke and ancient water slipping over rocks
And in between the curious bellies of lovers.
My mother tongue is the moss, mooning, sated, on the rock.
It is the wild circle of women, and the wordless things that pass between them.
It is the space between kisses.
It is this:

I trust in the river
To smooth the edges of sharp stones.
to sing the song that somehow reaches back,
weaving its liquid fingers into ancient echoes
of great grandmothers, into light from long-dead stars.

There is no book, no binding,
Just a vast impression of something wild, blue, unknowable.
And the moments, few and far, when we dance in stride with mystery,
(A shimmer-shadow, snaking wildly in the periphery),
Pulling us away from the meaning of words, and back into the dark book of sound.