Isis grows tomatoes in the sugar skull of the Beloved
who hangs onto a vine that climbs the gravestone
where he delivers the quick and the dead, chivalrous,
blessing every session with the wick and the creed,
bread and hunger both used to induce visions that
applaud the Goddess of all that is and was, and he, missing
his one member the fish ate, not out of hate
but instinct that ruins all the soldiers who need
closure after they come back from war.
Tell them every lesion ends in its season.
With blind eyes, the bats of summer
hear everything fall, even the meteors,
dust of the comet left in Orion
in your sight the night of the full moon
if only you’d look up on Transmountain
Road where the trucks roll on by, not
stopping to look into the stone’s eyes,
and blink you’ve missed it, because
the Amber Moon’s on the rise, right
as the sun goes whirling, turning, and
speeding through the outer arms
of the Milky Way, what a highway—
you can see the backbone of the skyway
and that quick flash of rock, ice, and dust
falling in a parabola into the Earth’s orbit,
spinning its way around the black hole
the event horizon gives definition to
and photons, mesons, bosons, and neutrinos
on the edge of existence, the full moon,
and Isis, Goddess of what is.
Read Meet Mago Contributor Robin Scofield.