When mother stretches out her palm – she offers.
That what’s on the palm instantly grows into
a hundred-year old tree,
into a tower with torture chambers and Arthur’s sword.
That what’s on the palm presses itself like a premonition,
like a fossil of eyesight
upon your lip that pronounces - this is how
I come into being.
When mother stretches out her hand, everything,
including your hair, teeth, lovers
and glasses, it all gets tossed on a heap
in a pyramid of desire.
One eye takes a walk to the left, because it is
too painful that miracle egg on the palm,
that Etrurian word trembling as if it is going
to slice the world in two.
Mother charts out the constellations of ships.
There is a lighthouse in the night moving
on top of a turtle and a whale.
It also moves on mother’s palm, moving further
and further away towards some other you.
For tomorrow is the great eclipse, the mass of
childhood that fell off along with the fish head
wondering: where and when is that night now?
And when did mother’s palm close?