The Oldest Consciousness is a Woman
by September Taylor
Flattened by the weight of millennia,
she has turned to mostly skin. Laid next
to where three rivers meet, she gazes
at the sky. Tears feeding the moss and grass,
the biting bugs make their nest into
what she once was. Living as a puddle,
ear to the ground, she listens for radio waves
and the dreams of doves. The idea of death
has long departed. The idea of life, as well.
Somewhere nearby a mouse is running.