Your mother longing stirs when Divinity’s inspired hand
emits an ethereal whirlwind. Its vapors coalescing
around you, form a tiny shadow of her face that impregnates
your mind, then seeps even deeper into your ready womb.
Your daughter gestates, births, curls in your hand, then leaves the picture,
separates, fading forward into a different scene, unseen.
You seem to know that you have limited control
over your daughter’s leaving because
you sit so patiently. It appears that
you never move from your silken-cushioned throne,
the presence of daughter always with you, although she is gone.
Your memory touches her fresh, fragrant rose-like skin and hair.
Is her separation their thorns that pierce your heart and hands?
No blood drips from the one that rests so serenely on your
blue-black skirt. You sit on your silken-cushioned throne
whose hues are like a ripening peach,
color of your daughter’s flesh unfolding, while her womb prepares
to drip blood on her young thighs, her mind opening to desire.
You seem to know you have limited control
over these changes. You sit so patiently.
It appears that you never move from your
silken-cushioned throne as your thoughts keep
forming and taking form, that ethereal whirlwind breathing
its vapors that endlessly arise from and draw back into
the ever present hand of Divinity.

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