she colored space-time
into her hair
using only a paintbrush and patience
strand by strand she formed it:
the glistening planets and stars that are
of her own mind
neurons shooting like rockets
envisioning the galaxies that, built from her hands,
exploded from nothing into everything,
tangible but free, whispering red gold light
she wrote out the oceans
using her hands
lakes rivers and streams, and the lands along the edges
word by word she poured it:
the life of each puddle turned into clay creatures
that breathed reality
existing like trees on the vast new savannas
living freedom that, carved from her fingertips,
developed happiness and sorrow,
careful but real, eating their new knowledge
she gave birth to gods
from her parted lips
speaking out deities and auras
making the small assertion:
that life came from her and all things by her
but the life she loves had long since forgotten
the green of her eyes
and the red rock of her skin,
her writings and whispers
floating throughout the summer smog
so she roared in the thunder and the rushing waves
for her children and worlds to listen
but they could no longer hear, and she was left
lost and awaiting, wrapped
in her own space-time hair
