For Dora

My lava jewelry is sunk into the blue lagoon. What stands between my ring and my now steamy golden watch is a poem. Audre Lorde in astrakhan black coat, black goggles, and black hair has diamonds in her mouth. Some sight. “I / is the total black, / being spoken / from the earth’s inside. / There are many kinds of open / how a diamond comes / into a knot of flame / how sound comes into a word, coloured / by who pays what for speaking. / Some words are open like a diamond / on glass windows." I kiss my chess playing sister before she goes to work. I open the door for her.” Then the window. On the threshold she tells me what the word is. Paul in Acts 18 had a vision: “do not remain silent.” I think about that. But how to reclaim someone else’s word? And I also want to claim Lorde’s word: “Love is a word, another kind of open.” The Bible is on the table. I open it and Proverbs 24 unfolds: “A wise man has great power; and a knowledgeable man increases strength.” I prefer the prophets to the converted patriarchs. Wisdom is a polished jewel in the open morning. It’s seven, my watch tells me. Its name is Omega. But time reflected in the diamond is boundless. Lord-less. The lava bedevils me. It’s coffee time.


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