Cover the sky with your hand.
The summit of your palm is the moon.
Your fingers are streams of stardust
sweeping through an ancient dune
or the slender branches of forked trees.
Glide them across the desert,
over valleys, the soft and sediment.
I am every woman you have loved,
their dynamic wings beat in me.
Recall my eyes as history,
you have lived here a thousand years.
art by Louis Treserras