Sonnet for Yemaya

    Orisha of the living ocean, and the divine feminine

Mother, I am not married but I give,
am giving, fullness. Am conjuring.
Egret in flight. Scent of powder, sea foam.
The cowry shells speak but not of their past;
first abandonment, a turning over.
Then, snail exposed to air, all cruelties.
Mother, help me not fear comparison.
So much depends on this globe you’ve painted
brown, soil of the trout lily, body
in diapause. In your sea of nature
and harmony, I want to live. Be live
as commodity, the satchel of stones
I leave in the corners I make holy.
Only the act of making is assured.