Because my child

will be called an anchor

               with hands at its throat,

                         every month

it fans like dry rice bumped

                                     from its sack.

                         It fans from clouds

               down a mountain

                                     creased

with snow. A cone

                         of continental deposit.

                                                  It rebounds light

                         like an ammolite

                                                  heirloom.

                                                                           It fans like a root.

Like paint pulled by a brush over

an edge.

                         It branches like a line;

               it sinks

                         like a crater on a graph.

It waves like a name                    away,

with my hand.                             A land bridge

               dispersed from my body

                                                  into water.