ghazal for the motherworld
stitched at the edges of our mouths be songs of loss, psalms of care.
rub comfrey salve in the faint seams of our soles, balm of care.
the planet growls with its own grammar of secrets,
rumbles with its own mother wit, rage, song & care.
mabel swaying at the threshold between dirt & aether as her baby
she could not keep on earth visits her: “why, look at your palms, baby care.”
mourning-sickness ruptures bodies into portals, powerful as waters
maternal. may transformation leave us aglow with calm & care.
before we left, we brewed tinctures so our tongues didn’t rust
here, we build our homes with spit, ash, halm & care.
water gleaming like bone—will you tell us again the destiny
of the future’s remains, embalmed with care?