I

the road lies before me—
a dark promise, a yellow

remembering—the bowl
is empty, the bowl is full—

I do not know what to do
with my hands anymore.

II

the crows collect around
the rib of the lamb, they

peck at the dusk of its
belly, shred the morning

of its body, undo its
eyes of rubble—where

do I begin to rearrange
my life—where light limps?

III

hello, Mother, hello
Small Mother, hello

brother spinning
in the pure light

of before dawn, hello
brother making a hymn

out of twigs—dream
opening itself up to

purple light—hello
magic of golden cowries—