Purving on some star systems gone
before we started, hanging around naked
like wrds mssng vwls—Where did she come from,
the pregnant virgin hen? Her feathered Buddha belly
prosperity billboard, author of religion
the tarry slits on her wrists were jewelry scars
a lover, a bangle, an unwanted triangle.
Her voice of fear out-shouted her voice of pain;
her beak moved our mountains when she happened…
After her brain was packed with enzyme cabbage
and ceremoniously covered with salad berries,
her carbon bones told her mother of time,
father of invention, sage of another.
Where did she go, egg mom of our age?
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