If the moon
is not dragged through night
by dogs, I will twist the ropes
and make it so. I’ll strap mules
to the sun and plow — cut

Deep and cumulus furrows,
seed rain and turn my vast mouth
to the sea. Whereupon,
I will spit the whale and breach.
All things are of my making.

If in every beginning
is a word, then the word
must be Love. A symphony
of snakes is born of this,
this coiled hiss. And if not,

I will make it so.
There is no rift I cannot flood
with the wave of a hand, a word —
no cleave or condescension
that is not swept away.

It is your turn now, your turn
to speak the world into being —
your turn to make
a basket of your hands
and see what nests there.

Image: freestocks on Unsplash

Published in “Poetic Medicine in the Time of Pandemic” ©2020 by Lotus Leaf LLC.

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