Knock knock (on the stars).
Who’s there? Some form of God —
The wise old man who paces the sky as his floor.
The merciful mother who etches her face into tortillas
and cries down the cheeks of statues for her true believers —
How can you tell it’s real?
How can you say it’s not?
When the moon foreshadows the weeping days
and the sun breaks all night long.
Because the heart quickens when it sees it,
the face of its beloved flickering with hope.
Because where else does love come from, my dearies,
before its sprinkled upon the earth?
Poem and photos by Emily Murdoch.