This year may I be created—
myself the brooding waters.
Call the wind
to stir above me.
Tell space open.
Tell time divide.
Out of the vacuum, grow wings.
This year may I pull upward;
beak a hole in the rakia—
let the upper waters rain down
let the lower water rise.
In the deluge, I will make myself
an ark, and find room
for two of everything.
This year may I drink myself full
lie on the bruised earth,
skin to skin with no name.
Call the blessings of the depths within.
My mouth a beak, I will
nest never-laid eggs in my navel,
and wait for them to hatch.
