Earlier than written language,
earlier than helmets of blood, I used to be wind-carved
on the earth. We walked by way of Obsidian
Valley, my son’s moon-smooth
face upturned towards the night time sky.
We held time and nothingness
in our eyes. I sang out past the ocean
of stars. I bore his physique of shining stone,
a revision of bone.
Mountains got here earlier than us, moms
and aunts, lengthy earlier than our eyes knew starlight,
earlier than eyes.
Past Earth we glance up, we stargazers.
These stars, our stars,
spinning from mud and need,
maintain our tales, ashes
of our gods.
My son’s small shoulders beside me,
a spit of starlight in his black eyes
as he beholds that bridge of the gods
we’re blown by way of at loss of life,
drifting amongst different ghosts
like milkweed seeds.
From this shore
we row out into night time’s mouth, yonder
over midnight waves, area of stars, we two
roll onward
into the whole lot
ready to develop into mild.