You remember her.
Tell God I didn’t know he existed until now.
We become artists because we see and live what others do not, or refuse to remember.
This is what matters:
My body sacred is not, when reality mixed with deep voice, fingers tasting, yours.
We work for 10 minutes each day, shine our bright lights into the world
Let me sharpen my tongue against a stone worthy of my labor.
The beauty of the thing was that it never gave up its exact location.