Bridge of the Gods

Before written language,
before helmets of blood, I was wind-carved
in the world. We walked through Obsidian
Valley, my son’s moon-smooth  
face upturned toward the night sky.
We held time and nothingness
in our eyes. I sang out beyond the sea
of stars. I bore his body of shining stone,
a revision of bone.  
Mountains came before us, mothers
and aunts, long before our eyes knew starlight,
before eyes.  
Beyond Earth we look up, we stargazers.
Those stars, our stars,
spinning from dust and desire,
hold our stories, ashes  
of our gods.
My son’s small shoulders beside me,
a spit of starlight in his black eyes  
as he beholds that bridge of the gods
we’re blown through at death,
drifting among other ghosts  
like milkweed seeds.
From this shore  
we row out into night’s mouth, yonder
over midnight waves, field of stars, we two
roll onward
into everything
waiting to become light.