Her pottery is glazed

In eons of particle dust

Older than the breath

That now condenses

Conversation

Is all she wants her tongue to hold-

She likes the flow-

The simple audacity

This simple consecration of words-

Orchestrated in the heavens

Lingering in our isotopes

 Belonging in the songs

Belonging in the lexicon-

Women who are in fact,

By invitation only-

Inscritped in india ink

On rice paper

Unsullied intrusion

Of beauty and happenstance.