…I brought him to my Mother’s house
to the bedchamber of the one who conceived me.
Song of Soloman 3:4
Go to her.
Leave the flesh waving behind
as if it were an acre of maize.
Float out to Her, calling her name.
Your voice is a morning glory opening in the throat,
the name forming on your tongue
one thousand syllables of falling water.
We are drawn from our Mother’s well
fed by Her spring, hidden until sung for
in the folds of Her.