Mother of Us All

The one with violets in her lap
or perhaps a lake of blue
buttons knee deep and slipping

when she stands small slashes
scatter across her skirt soft
as bandages. Then again

she holds only the lilac
shadow of her face moving
into its seams then rising

above her waist urgent
with daylight. More likely she settles
behind polished walls

in her own house hued
with hyacinth proximity
a matrix of blood first

tinged with air. Just to play
devil’s advocate let’s say her thighs
are coarse indigo paper

soaked in need
backlit with expression
or even lavender paths

of inquiry. Whether she turns
when a name is called or if
absorbed in a night’s iris

intelligence remains immobile
as the dinner bell strikes
she is the one addressed.