We Will Birth Waterfalls
by U.A. Edwardson

My brother says there will be a river in the sky, someday soon.
It will be a cascading multitude of bodies who will not
fear to be naked and black, subscribed to knowing the sun.
— the almighty sun — my brother says people will conquer it in the
future, build themselves cities of light and prosperity… Sometime,
everybody will be a shadowing ray (a kind of unclear thing which
is hectically boundless) because in this present, we are darkness.
He says there will be a forest of lilies in the sun, everyone will
become, each, a butterfly succouring brightness — that in us,
we will birth waterfalls of beauty; untimely pixels; children who
are made of bits of laughter and are freer than the freest breeze.
My brother says there will be walls of mirrors, roads of purity;
Heaven will burn in jealousy, and everything will be a reflection
of everything — say we will behold ourselves and see farms of
roses, the sea, and mountains of ice — we will be a careless beauty
and nobody will care that they are built of transparent clay. He
says I will look in his eyes and see eternity. There will be no end.
Our mother will not be a flower of dust, her epitaph will bloom
into a reckless song. Our father will not be an ark of authority and
angst, in his body we will bend time and defile paradoxes; and
a widow will be the face of a morning moon, effortlessly cheered.
There will be another Africa, and it will be an embroidery of
dreams.