What if I just want to write at night? – have I upended this unwritten rule? – what happens if I really do what I need to do? – and it shakes the bones – but reveals the dark light? – as if this was anything but where our foundations were laid, first found in the infinite black hole of each others’ irises – I’ve been dreaming of motherhood since you pointed out my lack of it – dreaming of crisis so I can slip out the back of this particular scene – in the back garden, some sorry creature has dragged up a carcass that I so carefully buried – on the very eve of something great – so I must attend to this, it, call it trauma, now, it won’t wait – as such, I’d rather do it quietly, alone or overseas, away from any eyes that might for a second look for or find a reason why they should not love me – I’m too old, too busy, too broken, too something, for this – came here to move mountains, and will, and meanwhile, yes it’s true, I am also picking small stones from the places they’ve been lodged in my chest – it’s wearisome work, takes time, always more to do once you’ve begun – but even in my stoned weariness I too am more than this – fucking let me sing into your mouth so you will know the fires of my devotion – fucking watch me part the ocean as I leave so I can return when I please – hear me roar with the surety of mountains that this love that lives in me will burn everything you know, so you can watch the flowers grow – then wilt me to my knees, bow my lashes, pray that you and me might actually trust all the commotion and find the still point, rest there –honey, lover, friend, I’m not sure certain where this’ll end, but fuck, I hope you care.