I put my ear
to the dirt under my orange tree,
to the jagged edge of a pale stone,
to the petal of a wilting flower,
to my dog's soft fur,
to my lover's beating heart,
to my mother's womb,
to my grandfather's wrinkled brow,
to our dripping blood and flowing tears,
laughing bellies and smirking lips,
and everywhere
I heard
the same
Quantum Song.

When I learned
how trees
dance,
I understood
how to
be of the earth
yet also
fly in the air.

My heart
sprouted lilies
when they buried me
without a casket.

When my skin itches
from the inside,
I take it off
and fold it into a hidden drawer
that I've wrapped in spellbound chains
and encrypted two-factor locks.

You'll still see me,
painted with eye-liner and hair dye,
walking in business suits and saris,
turtlenecks and bikinis,
and never know
these costumes
hang
on
bare spirit.

If I pull out this shrapnel
buried in my flesh
I may never stop bleeding.

-- memories

The monsters under my bed
having bedeviled and shadowed me since childhood
have also had the grace
to age and wrinkle with me
so now we battle as old friends
in more ways than one.

The web of branches
between my face
and the moon's,
mask from each of us the truth
that we share
the same light.