If death
the door, it must be
then I
with trembling hands
and doorways see
My ascent
the stair, and falling
by ways
all toe-stubbed attempts
to end my maze
My passing
the threshold, altar call
for I
cannot become
'til being ends
My becoming
the entry, grey fields
as I
haven't blinked
with these eyes
My going
the traverse, color binds
when I
give birth
forevermore
two hands...
one to palm the suffering
the other to fold for blessing
one to press seeds under dirt
the other to pluck flowers
one to scrape shovels into rock
the other to mold mountains
one to wave goodbye
the other to cup from the fountain
two praying hands
become one
she presses her lips
after a cursed rejection
to know your pucker