Those who visit this world
report that it is a world of husks,
empty shells, bitter skin.
Everything here must be wounded,
gashed and broken open
to reveal the bewildering sweetness
of its fruit.
If you can't find passion
in a land of disappointments,
at least fall in love
with this inhalation
as if it were the gasp
of one just born.
Then softly attend your sigh
as if it were your
final breath.
Descend into the starless seed
where it is always too long ago
for you to have been born.
His transparent sap
is all you can remember.
Be what ripens on a jagged branch,
still hard and bitter.
Assume that you lie dormant
in an ancient forest.
Winter is having its dream.
What is your name now?
The sound of an owl
zeroing down on its mouse.
The crimson pulp of your entrails
glistens in melting snow.
The hunter left you here.

Whatever is delicious,
whatever is astonishing,
whatever is terribly alive,
ripens and dies this moment.
Collage by Rashani Réa