I bet my brains blasted across space
would look as beautiful as
whose orange streaks, tinted pink,
pry at textures of connection.
I miss her.
I love not letting myself love her.
She hasn’t existed in three years now,
just another blood hand of Kali.
My third eye flits
when I see V.
For the first time,
I see her see me.
I know it’s her
in an ample white fur coat
sitting atop some tight designs
stretched from ass to foot, twice--
from this distance,
from this mind,
are Cretaceous bones
uncovered by hands
weathered against desert winds.
I know it is not her and I know
Gondwanaland can’t go home again.
I know this from the cold and limpid wind.