In the woman’s life space, what you tolerate is what you get. You don’t know what it’s like. Loquat under my black boot. Gadfly filling with the holy. Yasati, esati, avestan: I drive up and down hills through gems in the city’s pockets. Behind the man on the motorcycle, a new personality dimension with interdependent coordinates forms a woman with two long black braids being woven into an illustration of a woman whose two black braids come off the page and dangle down, more than a role stepped into and out of, inseparable and rogue.

This is the life I want to be in front of, uncountable, iregra, to make come, iredan, manner of coming, funtumia elastica, a blue anthocyanin powder: my coven is at the altar holding incense to our foreheads in white belts with chains and red holiday lights strung between golden mirrors.

I divide a dozen roses into three vases against feelings of incompetence: yasati boils, esati drives on a holy frenzy. I hear cymbals in the background. Car motors. Clash of skateboards on pavement. Hazards that can’t be avoided in the congruence of motherhood and self create maternal variables. Clash of wills. I smell weed and sit on a picnic blanket drinking water from a pink Nalgene making progress by spiraling, like walking into the earth where seers are, witches

under the sand twigs leaves cigarette butts. A car alarm goes and stops. Soft romantic music from a nearby restaurant. Tinny Guitar. Ayeayeayeayeayeayeaye you are my moon. Searching across the empty space, swaying in the breeze, wishing to be one with unstoppable speed, twinned in myself and willfully exploring. Eis, hieros, filled with the divine ire, tail feather, grieving what’s incompatible, binding-in, I drink a blood-red drink that is sweet with mulled spice.