after you have been awake forever

after the ocean takes the blue of your father’s eyes,
and the sun smokes the tobacco in your grandpa’s pipe,
and the wind unravels your grandma’s last sweater,
you will go years without sleep. and after
you have been awake forever, dissolving
in volcanoes of loss for so long, you are sure
the end of the world is your fault, and your sheets
are as torn as the rags of a beggar,
you will ask for what you want.

cry for help and the mother comes, with a bowl
of water, and a mirror. you are afraid to look;
you expect to see the ugly face of everything
inside you learned to hate, but all
you see reflected is the dawn:
here you are.

you forget again and again, and clouds cover
everything. there is no end to the oldest shadows.
swallow me, you beg the soil, and she laughs,
her mouth a carnival of flowers,
and sings give me your hand,
and your fists become leaves
falling as slowly as a season.

you look in the mirror again and see your body
for the first time: forest in bloom,
mycelial music, doomed universe dancing
because it can. someone is singing the secret
of gratitude and you realize it is you: ancient
as the fool and no longer mute,
wail of Demeter, cauldron of Ceridwen,
arrow of Artemis, you were born
to praise.

it could have been no other way, your blossoms are timed
as perfectly as spring’s garlands, and your offering
is as nourishing as every root the mother brings.
you were invited to this party and you are wearing
just the right thing. there were no mistakes,
there are no dead ends, forgetting and remembering
are winter and spring. draw yourself whole
with the wand of your pen,
sing yourself home,
invite yourself in.

all this time you wanted someone
to tell you the answer out loud,
when the medicine you needed
could only be spoken
through your own mouth.