Way down,
under earth & under that too
things the waking cannot
know of,
have long expanses
of slow water
& during night,
we cross over.
I heard a man speak a name
out loud.
My blood held the sound
of his voice
as he kept asking
me to hold
our passage.
In my body — the sound
& the long low cries
of our most loyal —
the ones we call “beloved”.
They were running toward
us— they were facing northward,
but he was not,
was considering instead how
to eat the sky,
drinking the black tea
that then gathered in his body
& the slow tree roots under night,
& small black leaves spattered across
my inner arms each time I woke.
I know I heard him call me
dear but, then he said, don’t move the water.
What is not a door.
Not a moon that circles.
Not a door or a veil—
not a moon that circles.
Not like that.
I heard a man call out
to the dark water,
in my body, the unforgotten,
beloved,
animal.