12 x 24


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There is a map to a different world
that only one can read
and a winged guide for the next migration
that only one can see

Cloaked in the unknown, in stars
she knows a part of her must die
to have its suffering relieved

She must receive
past resistance
serpents' singing

Pale is the moth, but brilliant
in its desire for immolation

Bony and bald, this soaring flight
to full moonlight
her love at last releases

She who is so many things
in this moment is just one
a honed still center
a heavy metal

so condensed, so focused
that, with a paintbrush, kiss, or  sword
of true responsibility
she can commit
unfrightened death

and be reborn