The space above the sun,
at the end of the Milky Way,
beyond the farthest cluster
of galaxies,
is the hollow in a mustard seed
that was planted in the furrow
of your missing rib.
Therefore, breathe in the night.
Every proton in each atom
in your chaos of flesh
is tethered to a native star.
You are so ancient that your light
is still approaching,
like a promise, a pilgrim God.
You are still receiving your name.
How do I know this?
I don’t.
I taste it.
Someone touched
the soft spot on my crown
and poured the nectar
of emptiness down my spine.
I won’t say who,
but her fragrance
is luminous and musky,
her body the color of silence.
If I were one of those
soul merchants who sell keys
to the door that is always open,
I would bottle her perfume
and call it ‘Bewilderment.’
~ Fred LaMotte