The year the birds didn’t sleep

The year the birds didn’t sleep
and fences became more invisible with each blink
we got up to stand on holy earth.
Our energy we drew from stars,
our dreams from dew.

We bathed our bare bodies in marigolds
and spent days lying face down, toe on toe, not looking but breathing.
The houses we had occupied only hours earlier
lay in front of our feet
like waxen statuettes waning in windy weather.

Wind couldn’t hold us down.
We would climb on roofs and pick tiles like apples
and stare at dusk and dawn alike,
seeing what grace was.

We prayed to the gods of little things
and instead of folding our hands
we painted our feet
because for the first time
we didn’t want to know better.

About you

You are a grain of salt
between my eyelashes:
when I blink,
you fall.

I am the water
flowing through your veins.
I run through you
like the river Nile,
giver of life
bringer of death.
I can fill you up
and I can drain you
and every two years you crumble
(you think I donʹt know
but I do).
I crush you beneath me
like a good god gone wrong.

You are the shadow beneath my feet:
when I move,
you disappear.