Though water blooms their skulls, a garden where the voice rots beyond hearing, you will hear them come. Listen for the rusted gate. Listen, the horses startle. A body comes to stand at your door like a broken
lighthouse. Wash away the salt, the blood, warm the tongue and it will name the shape of your hands. The map will come back into its body and so the body to its map. As the spring light floods each vessel, each petal of sweat
across the backs of the horses. As we all must raise kingdoms with only our hands. Shine your lantern on the last black flower wilting in the stone of her skull, then reach inside and pluck it from its centuries of darkness.