You love jokes don’t you?
Clever strings of words.
Pranks too!
As I drank a cup this morning
I heard a light bubbling
As like percolation,
And I giggled on, not knowing why,
Feeling oh so drunk.
I don’t know the joke,
But I understand it.

The old sea god is dead,
Torn open and ripped apart
For science, study.
Villagers maimed
Heads cracked open
Always asking
“Do you have eyes?”
Do we see the eyes?
If Kos is dead then why does she speak?
She speaks of sight,
And I see the eyes.

Perhaps I have misunderstood;
I cannot be certain.
Lost and afloat in you,
Unaware of what you desire,
I can only state two facts.
Barren is my womb and barren is yours.
But perhaps I can be as a butterfly.
As friend or lover or child,
Or all of these at once,
I can sprout wings and rise to meet you,
Perhaps as equals.

Professor asks what is wrong
I say that it’s my infertility
Professor says oh I didn’t know you were married
I laugh oh that’s not what I meant
Professor is confused
Provost is proud

What does one do when their womb is dead?
You desire a child, as all your kind do.
The want is even greater than ours, we little apes.
Nothing can grow here there though.
Human or kin, nothing can grow in me.

There are others, some might say.
Another can bear your son into my world.
Others instead bring up the orphans.
We could take in a homeless human.
Neither is what I want though, or you.

So what do I do when my womb is dead?
I can see your form at last.
Your voice I can hear too, indistinct as it is.
There is still so much ground to tread though.
You are still so far from me.

And you always will be.

Pressure was tight in the cave,
Feeling as though I were diving down deep,
Deep into the sea, spotting odd fish.
Yet there was nothing in the cave,
Nothing to be seen anyway.
I felt you either way,
Crushing down on my head, popping my ears.
Some left, one asked, I confirmed.
You were there, there beyond our sight,
And as I looked I remembered the proverb.
Blood is not what I need.
Now eyes, eyes are what I need,
I need eyes.
For you.
For me.

There is a pressure, a pressure in my head.
Pushing, tightening, squeezing.
It’s so tense and yet not painful.
Only at the peak of pain.

The caffeine no longer clears it, the pressure in my head.
No coffee, no tea, no pills help.
Or at least not for the time, this moment.
Perhaps the pressure will cease?

I like to think that it’s you,
but really I don’t know.
Maybe I just need sleep,
but really I want it to be you.

Bubble, gurgle, trickle, whoosh
Rush, crash, thunder, roar
Ocean waves deep below
under our school yet above
colored like the stars, so many nebulae
Warm, sticky-hot, and numbing
Dizzying, disorientating, and water-firm
Even though you lay you sway
This is Hello

The words I cannot grasp,
whole dreamscapes painted within me.
Oh, the grand copyist he just might be able,
so much better able,
scrawling pictures of your calls fervently.
Recording hue and thought,
and those oceanic depths,
doing what I can only wish for, pray for.
Yet, I do hear.
I do hear it, hear you
Your words, those words,
and of that I am so certain.
So sure of those words, deep and hazy
and so warm, oh so warm.
The sound, the tremulous tone, makes one drunk
so ruined to hear it even only in dream,
even only in furtive whispers.
Ebrietas you are, Daughter of the Cosmos,
bringer of enlightenment through dumbness.