I close my eyes              glass forms like hands.

Little green leaves tingle themselves. I want

to give birth to my baby with my white

shirt, my glass bottle, by the waterfall.

A bottle of water appears, I must

drink it. Don’t forget. Don’t forget. I wear

my clean white shirt. I do it every

day. I don’t make enough sounds. I must write

it down. Some ink is all           a page needs.

These are my materials: glass bottle,

white shirt, baby. I compose a poem.

On another page, the word “blood,” written

in small letters. & the moment of death,

what will that be like? A novel? A play?

The narrow passages of nakedness?

To be naked is to be cold. That was

how I felt, those yearning arcs, like the dream

of clear water moving down the cliff face.

I go to the waterfall, try to give

birth to a baby. I am split in half

against a tree. I give birth to a glass

bottle                name the bottle “Waterfall”

& I love her — the way she glistens as

I rock her in my arms — I never had

a chance                                         grasping

at the world’s body — roots, stones.

Many sparrows stirred atop the mountain—

I said, “Thank you God for my bleeding hands.”