sigil ovenbird When the sun slides low across the sky and finds the notch of my balcony door, turning my dining room into a memory of Newgrange, the light catches on the place where my child’s fingers have traced shapes in the accumulated grime of a dying winter. For a moment, when the beams pass through glass at just the right angle, I can see the outline of two hearts touching, crowned with three letters that seem to spell a word in the shape of a key that unlocks a story much larger than its single syllable, hard as a ruby, should be capable of containing. I wonder if insanity has finally come for me, showing me things that can’t possibly be there, my mind conjuring meaning from dust. But the word persists and withstands closer inspection. If I’m insane I suppose I’ll stay this way, waiting for life to write me love poems in a fogged up glass. I have no interest in silencing the voices you must be still and attentive to hear. I’ll make a lightning rod of my skyward hand and let every word pass through me, exploding into thunder at my feet. I want to feel the rumble of synchronicity in my marrow and fingers of static running down my spine. 260123 what's it to you? who go blather from