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31 Omecíhuatl in the Garden Where Yes Is the Only Island (from the Gospel of the Brown Adam) Is anything stable and lasting? What reaches its aim? —Cantares Mexicanos, folio 10, v. Untenable surface swarmed in light, water-striders, & mauve strings of sea moss pattern grammar in the thin wind’s swill. I tear water from our chest. Swept in thorn, our lips stained with agarita, I feed the chalice-vine, succoring our nature before we are organs. If this —the grey-green leaf, the gift-led blind— is deity, our language is soaked in the black’s brine. The black sings a music nudity banners, a field of scorched arms of what was once acres of pine. Soothing soot across our face, we sing 32 over flowering world. Separated, we are. Why this field of racked hunger when the lion’s mane once carried the calendars? No longer over life but of life, we burn the resin surviving the eye. We build altars from breath’s broken splinters. I count your breath, remember our skin as the silence making silence real, a garden where Yes is the only island. ...

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