A five year old colors a map with no key:
Why oceans blue, sky? Answer me!
Mother is one answer. Words form quadrangles.
I saw myself from the roof, I was crying “Answer me!” inside of chalk lines.
We write in languages we do not speak.

Well, I wrote it down but it sounds
like more. Geometrical blueprints, my life’s work a recurring dream,
buffered by wind above the streets.
The day I met your father I woke up.
We walked into film stills, broke through.
Within all storms I hold him, hold you.

During the summer when you were born,
circles crossed circles in the lilac trees and
I dreamed you saw your first snow.
I heard my own mother singing on the edge of my bed,
lyres in waves of joy and love.
The voice I hear is hers when I sing to you, but it is borrowed-
I couldn’t know its origin, I still don’t.

But your light is entirely new.
You arrived here from a new charter.
Cities torn but you were flying, you were running water. Biology is our bedrock.
In labor I woke up, and the nurses brought me you.

I was the door you chose to walk through.

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