She's a Christ Forsaken Angel

So I danced, off my head—

out of hand, with a magician

from a years old

dream along the belt

of a homebound warrior

while the tentacles of space

were tightly wound around my waist.

In the slanted light of fresh motes

we ate a black hole breakfast

of cool flesh and scented

shells. I turned my hair

into a constellation

in the grass, and drank in the dew

of a thumb charting a universal

map of freckles and scars

into the vastness of unlearning.

And in the blank space

of spirals and scribbles

there was finally room

for me to roll a rainbow

across my eyes as we moved

softly, into in night. Butterfly,

constellation, owl, magician, warrior—

this universe is finally ours.

The words are mine, the image in Tara McPherson's