To the marrow of a hinge in the door looming within the spaces in my spine.

 I partake unwillingly into the silence of the thereafter; I hear them walking after these hours...

I do so.

Linger in the niche halfway of dawn predesessing names, and umbilical alliances from the severed.

The key is in the shadow and the sun.

The howl before humanity: I am somehow unasleep, sleeping beneath the moons gaze.

Tell yourself this is what it is...

Over.

And over...

Into the forest somewhere, there is a stream of dreams and thread.

 I ask myself if one should bathe the wolf.

As if looking at oneself was looking at death in order to live eventful sorrows to heal...

After these hours.

 I do so.

 

© Mimi Caneda Mata