In Sight/Insight

Skull gravid with unfolding
lotus, shattering with stained-glass rays
like lacquer chopsticks thrust through her
piles of hair as indigo as ocean--
she does not speak
but from her eyes come tiny drops of vision
we mistake for tears.
She blows bubbles full of revelation
like ornaments for the World-Tree,
cusped prismatic lenses,
spectacles for spiritual myopia.

Light is bent and lensed
by gravity, by glass and water,
by the humors of the eye itself.
Insights dance in the hall of mirrors
in the middle of her skull, chiasma, crossing-point
for left-right crosstalk.

She will not talk. We trace the flow
of messages across the inside of her head
in the folds of her hands
and the waves of her hair.

--image by cocomariposa via Poefusion
Collection available! Knocking from Inside