Once, when she told me there’s no view
left to keep, she took out her eyes.
It was a symbol of her strength, her
devotion to the light. Not one to hold
the tongue, old spirit with seedling
gaze, flesh is becoming dull to possess.
Exile not dedicated to land, just the thin
sacredness behind it, so why bother?
Necessity to medicate, no longer starry-
eyed (buried for a reason). Once when
he asks us, “how do you know until
you try it?” another girl tries to swallow
swords, swallows her spirit instead…
There’s a lesson here, somewhere between
the blind and the throat. It’s tongue is delicate,
it lulls against erosion of time, guiding her
intuition, showing the cool roots of cedars
below, finding the flameless core. She knows
not to dig up old plots unless there’s a fire below
to harvest from the ghosts who never die.