Darkness. Darkness. And then words. Ma-ma-ma
and Ha-ha-ha. Hit a rock, it splinters,

you say. First there was the Sun and the Moon,
Yahweh and Shekhinah, Good and Evil.

But pairs do not interest, for in-between
the sun and moon lies the Milkyway and

from the flesh of Yahweh and Shekhinah
arose double-heads and hermaphrodites,

night jars and what’s called pleasure. I brushed rouge
into her cheeks, painted black kohl around

the rims of her eyes; tied up her hair. She
was something else. An ironwood stick. Shattered

stone. The first words ever spoken: ma-ma-
ma. Her flesh was sea-salty with darkness.

Rising on a tongue rooted deep within.
All poetry needs primordial roots.