I am a recycling factory 
of soft metaphors.  

If my mouth is a vase, then 
poppies, violets, lilacs, chrysanthemums.  

If my third eye is a sky, then 
sun , moon, eclipse, 
star shine.  

These lashes are glimmering 
with celestial crystals 
and space dust.  

These lips are vibrating 
with fertile pollen and 
dew drops.  

In these ways, I become a heavenly garden, 
a metaphysical conversation, a small essence 
cluster of deity.  

But what if all the petals are plucked, 
what if all the lights are extinguished, 
what if there is no body 

as I conceptualize it. 

Am I still sensual? 
Am I still worthy? 
Am I still me? 

In the grit of darkness 
I can feel
the epiphany 

of root systems 
with no answer of blooms 
coming into existence.

:

Pronouns: Family + She + They
Mxs. Isa Lee Love Jones René