In my visions, the migratory bird
flies away, afraid to dream truth.

At night I take to living in a bowl,
moons surface like soup bones.

I am unmade, my infant carapace,
tremulous interior. I follow a trail.

Rose petals cut from newspaper
lead me to my childhood bedroom.

When I open the door, grief enters.
The goddess of compassion, carved

from teak. I split pomegranates here,
I kneel to touch her wooden feet.

I smoke her green feathers, shake her
tasselled hem. Why can’t she hear me?