my world is fine ash,

kicked up by sure

footfalls. ash upward rising

like steam

from leaves after rain

into a crisp sky, blue

like water.

i want someone’s bleached

dry skeleton to hold or rubble

to shelter me in the cold or

some shape to contrast

against the unformed.

so i exhale a final breath

of smoke from a long since

spent fire and collect lumps

of dusty ash in my hands to mold

into the only shape i know. here is

a face like mine, full lips, long hair, a whole

heart, breasts, hips, thighs, calves. i call

her daughter. she blinks. she smiles.

she calls me mother. i form ashen

walls around her. here are buttresses,

here are towers, here are gates. i call

this cathedral. daughter lives here,

eats the fruit i have provided, sleeps

and wakes. beyond its gates i take

ash in my hands again and i dig

on my knees long and deep, here

all carbon molecules scooped up and held

by me congregate and squirm to life.

here is a skeleton with muscle, legs, and

a head. i call this animal. here is a brittle

exoskeleton with grey wings. i call

this insect. daughter

cries out to me, alone, in cathedral. i call

this worship. i dig

until my hands turn black and

the empty space outweighs ash.

i take a step back. i call this ocean.