Mama Flight

Mother flew ‘round the sun
and made space fall
through the night,
a packet of stars
scattered like dust across
a dreamy sky.

Mother dove deep in the sea
and let milk run
from her breasts,
water from her mouth,
blood from her veins.
She swam, and fed the waves
until the foam laughed.

Mother climbed mountains
and dug valleys,
her hands soiled to knead
and mold, muscles pressing,
knees bent, eye intent
as she worked, making,
shaping. She planted seed
and strung flowers
like beads, a garland
for the green—and gray
—Earth.

Mother made fire.
And danced.
She sang a wind
of twilit evenings and
bright mornings, dewy whispers
and riotous thunder, thick
with spark and ash. And
danced. Her toes
gathered sooty grain
in the fervent decay.
She sang. Warm.

Mother slept,
and pulled tiny chants
from her ears. She dreamed
ice caps and falling leaves,
braids and wings
and silky streams.
And when she woke

she flew.