dear Georgia. let my children know

—

I was woman first. one

who floated in the middle of a month

barely bruised ground. squarely

blew budding blue moon

into sympathetic nights

I was never without truth. & I never

gave in first. nor second. maybe third

or fourth. maybe in the middle

of a dream. in a missing room

where the walls vanished. & came home again

exquisite in my magic

I was song in throat

nest & vessel

I knew I would bear children. all

under water

4.6.15

passing the torch of fever