I was washed up
at sea, shell cocoon
born of a tiger and
a lamb, the sand that
came out of my nostrils blew
into glass, amber, fossils with bees
trapped in remembering,
When my father hands me his eyes,
I burn them into
the palms of my hands,
yellow, ochre, gold.
He puts me on a cliff of eagles.
Horns of Babel and civilizations
trumpet and spill into the ocean,
onto shore as people, ships,
Commerce comes pouring out.
My father runs, my mother follows
into the highlands and cries into canyons
when she cannot find him.
It’s not as easy as it seems,
I wipe earth off my face and pull out twigs
from the soft of my heel.
I hear her.
I hear them.
I feel ridges of wings pushing
through flesh and skin
like a wisdom tooth.
My shoulder blade bleeds and
baptizes daisies into birth.
Honeycomb drips off my fingers,
we eat, we eat, we throw ourselves off bridges,
we rush forward and our faces appear as stars
drumming like hammers into the black nothing of nails.
Loose, loose, my oldest friend.
We bloom into mountains, into shrines.
Signal Hill, California