Mother
What kind of dreamer was she,
to sit by her window,
bleeding,
and dare to lift the veil
of Sight?

She saw me before I was there to see:

skin as white as snow,
lips as red as blood,
hair as black as a raven's wing.

What else did she see?

They do not say if she saw her death.
If the blood she spilled dreaming me showed her
the blood she'd spill bearing me.
They do not speak of her at all,

Except the one dream.

writing
filmmaking
academics
biography

Originally published in Star*Line v25.1. Misprinted as "Untitled," with "Mother" as the first line.