The yellowed yarrow man sat to eat my sorrow with sips of supper. The two murre eggs in his head met the nest of driftwood in the place my eyes rest.
What if that love was only fractionally given, leaving a sense memory of what is longed for but can no longer be fulfilled?
You just woke up from an illusion that you should not stand in the dark, that darkness would swallow you if you didn’t run from it.
I’ve been walking with the Eve creation story, the one I was told in Sunday school, finding the ways in which she has sung through my voice.