At a time when mother was the world

I imagine you leaving, uncurling underneath the folds of sleep like a child slip-sliding through the warm space that is mother, at a time when mother was the world.

I imagine me, writing to you, a nonpoem of paper cranes.   I am placing one of the cranes on my tongue, now, offering you a year’s worth of words in one single image, heavy and thick as Florida air and the body that carries it, aching.

You say you ache.

I say you’re plum graffiti lightness boomboxing its way into my back as I sit here, on this mat, as I begin my practice, knowing there will be more within me to give you when I’m finished, more than paper cranes with hearts that are too warm, hearts that want to cool, slowly, into equilibrium, into a world where the lives within our lives are unborn, waiting.