The Goddess

I met a goddess
under a pear-tree,
munching a pear noiselessly,
her long skirt sagging between her knees.

With each bite
the pear would grow back
into a perfect sphere,
a ladybird crawled on her leg
and a marigold laughed in her hair.

I took the goddess by the hand
and led her to my house,
she sat on the broken threshold,
chirping her limpid songs.

All the birds that had died
came fluttering their rare wings,
all the cows that had been killed
came stomping their blood-stained hooves.

All the people who had been buried
in the neighbourhood
showed their snail-covered heads above the ground,
with trees and sky seen through their eyes.

In my uncle's hour-glass
sand was trickling upwards,
and porridge on my plate
started to heave and sprout,

and from the corner of my eye
I noticed my mother's
blue and orange dress, smeared with clay,
flapping in the doorway.

I came up to the goddess,
looked into her grey eyes,
and saw the seven planets
roll down their pearly tracks,

and the grainy sun
swell in its patterned niche,
like a blob of honey
in a silver spoon,

and my own soul,
hold like a golden stitch
a tear in the violet crewel,
making it whole.