Question:
Spirit, what see you in verdant soil,
in grassy day, emerald night?
Are your undulations green?
Do you startle Cypress forests
with your smooth surfaces?

Answer:
Below serpentine— newest offspring
of my Earth, yawning gray boulders
— breaching mottled jade thrones?
Lay your body here.

Question:
Where are you? Red petal, white seed,
Laurel leaf, bay spirit. Spiral of stone!
Are your awesome veins fissures
or chasms curving?

Answer:
Yes, the crevices lean seaward
leaving my pubis exposed.
At the summit—heat. The moon
haunts all my shadows.

Question:
Are you always silent, Mother?
On slopes distant from your milky stroke,
do you alone soothe the clefts where
the silver spot nests?

Answer:
I keep company with those who suck each
clover and rarely move where lava once poured
over. Rivers of rock flowed inward towards
a tawny beach. My inlet sparkles open.

Question:
Why do the creeks rush with the insistence
that is water— tumbling forward a restless—
thunder of a thousand tongues.

Answer:
What other gift could I bring? A single song
ascends my canyon of madrone— thick
with miner’s grass— scent of lizard’s breath
stickling the ruddy ravines.

Question:
How does the blood of shooting stars shoot
endless arches? Who seeks your cooling touch,
reaching ever up, laughing in a coyote brush,
fields of lupin and mallow long disappeared?

Answer:
With want and quaking, anticipation ignites, strikes
from my side, splits right through, falls back, feeling
loss from my core. Forehead falling to my feet, insides
spilled out, piled up— half my heart brought down.