She lives by her dreams and writes
in odd sentences to drown the noise
of her better judgments
her well-meaning friends

Each thought a creation each
creation a making each
making a joining and in
joining the ancestral memory

Night’s desire caught fire
between two solitary souls
since the world was young

Or art would be nothing more
than building facades and paint
dried on stretched canvas and
music would lack the heartbeat

Lullaby of our mothers and no
song would remember the heritage
of our communal words

Blood for ink our secret power
to survive our own selves
safe passage through the stanza
clean sheets on the line

So it goes for those who live
where the watcher speaks her name