I'm the girl who won't go past
wet ankles for something glistening
in the sea. Call me a queen,
but royals perished for less—
mud silting their eyes.
A girl learns her name is penciled
by gods—effaced in stone.
When I fasten my brass hoops,
they shimmer like beggar's gold.
Then dust. I don't flinch at ruin.
My afterlife heels lift me
five inches closer to the moon.
Who refuses a wonder so rare?
I never ask for abundance—
Khidr rising lush from the dead.
When I look back, my mother's mouth
is a longing, half-parted for honey.
No daughter can give sugar
in salt.
