It tasted of night. Of cyclones. I was hungry and the world
wanted to be taken in. I could have devoured seasons,
red seeds bleeding from the corners of my mouth.
You would know from my face that I was full
filled now with longing for what could not complete.
I used to be the movement in a summer dress. Only the innocent
(or very wise) could stand it. Those were the days when grass
was just grass, the realest thing against skin. Now
each sharp green blade means more than how it feels
as though mystery were a matter of descent. Handed down
from Mother. Something returned to, an elopement
with darkness. I was not unwilling. I wanted
what tongue could reach: Crevice, crater, hole.
I wanted a sense of dimension, to go down and down,
to touch the bottom. I wanted to know why
all things true must be swallowed whole.
