Message to the Young Goddess of the Moon

No thoughts to say about the moon. The novelist jokes about not being a poet. I feel the lie. Every person once immature, once glowing. I begin to ask, What place for me in luminary reflections? I know the question to be inadequate. You know the sensuous. You know vegetation. Precious feather flower. Human knowing: incoherent whispers, aches in shins, tingling sclera—what exists beyond vision. Inability to fathom. Unableness: a gift. Elliptical parts of me. Xochiquétzal, lunar disc in your chest, I am the heart cradled in your ribs. I sprout—becoming the multivalenced tree you dream of me.

Image taken from the Codex Yoalli Ehēcatl (Codex Borgia), Loubat 1898, Plate 44. (COURTESY OF ANCIENT AMERICAS AT LACMA.)