A New Kind of Breath

There is a breath that fills your blood with stars. Enormous suns and galaxies spill through the soft spot in your skull, where infancy never quite healed. Spiraling behind your eyes, the zodiac of perfect night: luminous worlds drip down the back of your throat, the nectar that oozed before God said, Let there be light. 

Whether you name this inbreath "Ya" and the outbreath "Hum," the sacred name in Hebrew; or the inbreath "So" and the outbreath "Ham," the most sacred mantra in Vedanta tradition, the name of God is the sound of the breath. Your belly fills up with constellations, heavens swirl through your sex. Rooted in your muddy toes, the chthonic old gods of the earth swim up your spine, searching for the egg in your heart.

Breathe like the mirror of a mountain lake and you'll need no other love, for the night herself is love, gemmed in you as reflection, veiled in silence, whose gaze arrests your desire like a stab of diamonds in the wounded emptiness behind your eye. 

Breathe like this. Your lips will utter no more sounds like "I" and "Thou." Nakedness your jewelry now, tears replacing language; Bibles, Qu'rans, Vedas consumed in the smoke of your last sigh. And before the next breath enters your body, pulsations in your sparkling darkness sing the names of every star.