Frida W.H.

My viscera holds all creation / a cornucopia at the edge of blur / all creation / the smudge
in my hypnogogia / I am exhaling / all creation / sugar skulls, tripe, & the pelt of the trickster
fox / or am I inhaling / yet upon my broken back / the fissure at the center of my pain / to live
through another moon day / the moon aloof admonishes / the fiery giant going cold on itself
/ on the burn to white dwarf

I hold the key to plate tectonics / to all phases of macrophages and mitosis / the faces
of the lost & the haunted / all this extracted in my tears / tears upon the golden mean canted / my
easel & two-post bed / frame & bisect me at the point at which I am already broken in two /
seethe cold center-heat of my being / nail screws & plates / amorphous as the primordial rock /
a sentinel on my moonscape

This is a recursive moon / myriad moons will blot out the sun / here with fowl plucked
indignant / among these worlds / this world superheating in its own greenhouse / I hold all
creation / I and I are all creation.

“Here was peace. She pulled in her horizon like a great fish-net. Pulled it from around the waist of the world and draped it over her shoulder. So much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to come and see.”

—Zora Neale Hurston / Their Eyes Were Watching God