Our mother was a nun who ran away from St. Isadore's monastery when her belly swelled with sea salt and ether. When we were born, her heart unfurled like a blanket and she wrapped us in her cashmere love.
We warmed ourselves on the terra-cotta earth, digging for milk and coral in the night. We ate pine nuts, chipped mollusks and kale scavenged from the butter caves.
We slept like phosphorescent starfish, clinging to red-faced pinnacles in the desert rain. We dreamed of spiral occlusions, of tender fish hooks, of sea snakes drifting in the wind.
We woke to an impalpable dawn and secret skulls in the sand. Beardless flycatchers ached for luna.
This was the time before the birds began to die, when sea shells could still be found in Utah, before the world unhappened.
We were the bird-dwarfs of the Paunsaugunt Plateau. We flapped our fragile wings in the limestone amphitheaters, sang songs to our gods, and danced for our mother and the terrestrial archangels. We were tiny shamans in a whirlpool of rock spires.
We were born to tell you this: The opening blooms at death. We have seen it. We wait for you in the rainwater mazes.
We were born to tell you this: The opening blooms at death. We have seen it. We wait for you in the rainwater mazes.
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