Shekhinah, Immortal

Her hair is a memorial. Her skin
a living shroud. Her blood cells cascade
down rapids, through tributaries,
spin inner tubes on byways.
She is a plump seed bank
of stem cells layered
with nudges and
nuance, still
potent
with
pleasure,
with laughter.
Curious, she
is the one who
focuses the lens,
phases from shimmer to
prismatic, with crisp edges.
She leans over the microscope,
an incandescent eye, radiant
and restrained. Her dragons are shapechangers,
quiescent one moment, knit with stars
the next. They sidestep each question
like a dancer, a duelist,
incomplete but still close,
an invitation
(what will you do,
what won’t you)
with no
way
to say
yes. Or not.
The open hand
still needs translation.
Secrets bulge in spaces
between the fingers. Transmute
a breath to a whisper. Somewhere
someone already knows this, and has
forever. It will be so obvious.

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