Umbrellas make me think of opinions

where rain is benign and flames flood the earth
where breath is young
and death is a gentle smile
where in sunset
a camera and Italy
might change one’s vocation

She stands in front of her mirror and closet
and sees proof of everything
(creation as inseparable from separation)
she is a crematory artist
her echoes pang like BBs fired in an empty swimming pool
they pring my ears as I tune in enduring a delay
on cue a can kinks to the concrete

My little big brother and I
at the bottom not drowning compacting all the cans we can to collect cents
craft an edifice of conglomerate brick
it’s bigger than a barn now
we’ll need to build a hangar for these inanimate metals
in the meantime we must measure the molecular weight
meter the mass in minutes
until the black one we call mother
burdened by the heft of the slain
appoints our time

We used to bury eggs in the mud and found worms to grow
just as she emanates from ash in the brow of the mountain
where all names originate and breath is young
She dropped a pregnant salmon once
lifted a garland of yolk and fry
she scooped them up and set them in a tank
where even the skeletons swam again

We adopt ourselves as children to reconcile with age
built of skull and stone
she does not give what we expect except the few strands of cloth
once scorched upon her skin
each pore becomes a blossom that burrows back to seed