I notice the sprawling green veins in her hand
and recall her recalling the piece about two worlds:
that which is seen and that which is not.
Then there are veins.
I enter her through her body
because, I assume, that is where she is
but often, she is a few feet above herself
and I am not sure who is drinking
the tea I have brewed.
“Why do you fear your own flesh?” I ask
“Aren’t you your own home?”
She descends and rests her lip
on the lip of the mug, curling the steam
with her breath, encircled in rose and ginger.
“That is right. Thank you.”
She’s one of those people
who carry the truth in their eyes.
I can hear her in the other room
talking with others, sharing gratitudes,
going silent in a hug,
but what do her eyes look like?
Are they dilated? Is the iris in full hazel bloom?
Is she turned around and looking through the back of her head?
Or paralyzed in that one protective film
which doubles as her captor?
She has beautiful eyes though, doesn’t she.
“When you tell the story of someone
be careful how you enter,” she says,
massaging almond oil into her stretch marks
which, to me, are empty arroyos
where I have heard gold collects.
“And how you exit,” I say.
On nights like this one
we gathered dried lichen
and placed it into a young fire
frayed green tendrils chased into ash
like blood flooding a choked vein
when she stood she moved the light
around my face, washing it
like an eclipse sweeps the earth
and the smoke when she sang
it bent around her breath
it carried the song in its body
unable to hold it for long—
I swear the plumes were weeping
and if they had eyes
they would be in full bloom.