I was fluent in the music of the spheres
but it faded. So I salvaged one note
and kept it under my tongue
to fuel my first breath.
After my birth, I broke that note into colours
with which to see the world –
our home, where I was locked
in the cellar of myself.
The door has a leash hanging from it,
with little bells that shiver,
the way frost tinkles on a starry night.
Then the door clicks open and I go out
and stand naked
while snowflakes melt on my skin,
like the words of a lost language.
This giant atlas moth's broad wings
could be the map of China.
Here are two Great Walls. And there
on the Manchurian tip of each forewing,
are dragon heads to scare off predators.
But what are those windows in the map,
where crystal scales let in the light?
As if earth's skin has windows
and at certain times of the evening,
they open. The newly emerged atlas
perches on my hand, and it trembles –
like a new world, warming up for its first flight.
