Sing

The electric green of new dawn
eclipses my senses;
eyes blinking,
practicing sighs
into the theory
of another day.


Truth be told
I have often observed
this color in the portraits
of all the other women
I have ever been,

and the anniversary
of spring,
the rising up from the land
into the gospel
of the voice
of a single wood thrush,

a winged angel
interpreting
the foreign words
of music,
whispering joy
into the ear of God,

is enough to ignite
the whole universe
I have become
and burn with infinity
traced on the skin
of my inner thigh

and flash at the tips
of the lashes
that will welcome twilight
at the end of the world
with the notes
of an unknown song
flowing freely
from the space
of my open mouth.