Rainbows fume from
my body, but the green
water to nourish them
flows sporadically.
These hungry beams
of refracted light wait
outside my door while
burgundy streamers
stretch from my hands.
I wrap my son
in them to warm him
before sleep. Later,
disguised in streamers,
I creep among the
rainbows, singing softly
to sooth their hunger.
Occasionally when seven
hundred stories crawl
from my mouth—
coral, purple, and blue
ants searching for food—
they tell themselves
to anyone, indiscriminately.
And like all mothers,
when I sleep, green stars
flow in and out of my body,
constantly renewing me.
