  MILAREPA'S DANCE Maybe dreams are just the overreaching of money's excuse for not being real enough or owning pain rented out. My grandmother was dying as the paid nurse held her hand and I asked my Mother if this is what money buys. In silent shame I knew the truth no books are bold enough to hold the words for. I am born of this wound made in the earth by accident.
I look to the sky for answers in the clouds free to all. I look to the sky for the moon rising, reliable as egg letting go of womb. She is the woman he is looking for and he doesn't believe she exists. Even still her hands stretch out, thumb and forefinger holding the fragile peace. Even still her breathing lights up the room darker than he knows reaching out in ways he can not see, can only feel and she understands. 
