BPR 52 | 2025
—after C.T. Salazar
I don’t have a word for
the way I’ve mothered
the footprints of my choices,
the muddy stencil of their cosmos,
which is another kind
of mother + I don’t yet have a word
for you, but if I am a hole in the ground
are you the soil or the gardener?
Are you the time it takes to cross
a room by going half the distance
with each stride? Are you
a ribbon tied around the universe’s
finger, or are you the universe +
your fingers + your hands + the language
I’ve used to describe them +