7 Ohms/ 7 Oms Every sunrise mounts a pulse like the resurrection of a dead language. You will never be so brave as the first time you let go of your mother’s hand. Baby girl: set the table with bones and innards rich in expectations. We gorged on wood tigers and Sagitta slaked our thirst on stacks of books. Crumb snatchers, we ruled as Kushites unhurried and unfettered by menstrual squalls of appetite - couldn’t tell us anything… poetry