You tell the tiger to wipe the blood from his mouth
Lest the people teach him shame,
But the wetness of his insides warm our backs all the same.
Is it safe in the belly of the prey?
You hide in it all your life…
Nothing that walks shall lower the mountains head,
but even she must bow at the feet of time.
The night weeps dry to an absent moon.
‘Where are you tossed my delicate monsoon?’
Won’t you scrape the char from my skin into dark day?
Do you not feel the sadness sink heavier,
heavier still in the black of my wait?
I whose feathers are washed in her milk,
whose symbols are carved in an arrow’s tip.
I who drops from the trees to land in my skin,
each rebirth dragging an enemy within.
I, the child that could be mine,
ancient seamstress of the great divine.
scraping flesh from shoulder through the tunnel of my rage,
to sharpen the view of my mother
and push blade through the tongue that enslave me by name.