Kore is me in the eyes of my dream.
Rivers are my first mirrors
a game of pass-the-rumors to leaves
in the wind, my first telephone––
in this dream, caked in the back
of the skull, speckled cobwebs
are the night sky I watch
my airplanes dance ’round Venus
like a ceremonial feather spinning
circles to a mourning mother’s expectations––
I hear orchids growing from my nails
and rejoice the day the dark man stole me.
[…] “Transformation”, concis […]