Nomi Stone | Birth Spell
The way they tell it, it was September, when you shook your house of water.
That morning I ate an omelet with green apples and brie, staring at the world
in the instant you climbed toward it. On the sidewalk, a book vendor drank quietly
from a green book. Men unloaded bright bottles of lemon juice. Branches above bore
pale moonlike fruits. I had never seen such fruits. The sky, breathing, lost its lid like
when those planes, two crying sopranos broke. Boys in neon sneakers soar over
pavement, and the fountain is drinking just by existing.
The traffic sign says don’t walk don’t walk don’t walk, then: walk.
Eve, you came after Eve, my mother was born of Eve and bore a girl who bore you,