I am a thumb-sucking prophet
and I can tell you whatever you want to know
about sunbeams and solar beams and smokescreens
with just a wave of my mama-made hand.
Just put my thumb in my mouth and wait,
a toll paid to the twin gods of wonder and willfulness.
Mama, let me explain to you:
I don’t sleep through the night
because I don’t know what it is, because I once lived
in your ever-expanding vessel,
and I am still learning to shut out a world
so loud—with so few good places left
to mourn the silence of a womb and wish for it still,
even as it disappears from memory
and reinvents itself as history.
And you come into focus finally as my hand-holder:
bringer of the morning sun. And what is morning
to me? It goes like this, mama:
if I keep my thumb very still and wiggle free fingers,
you appear the sun, and you hold the grass in place
beneath our sky—
and the rooster sounds for me.