Flavors In My Blood

In the cool of the evening
my Beloved walks down this
cobbled path of little bones
that begins at the almond tree
growing between my eyebrows
and ends at the dark lily pond
in the woods beneath my navel.
We meet under the bent ribs
 in the heart chuppah,
that golden canopy of sighs.
Now I must explain that
all the gods are flavors in my blood,
the goddess just a tremor
of my exhalation.
She takes my hand and asks,
"Did you eat of the tree
whose fruit is Knowledge?"
I answer, "No Beloved,
I ate of that other tree
whose fruit is bewilderment."
She plays a seven-stringed vina,
which is my body, cacophony of dust.
Mangoes and pomegranates
split themselves without a knife,
because ripeness and wounding
are one.
I dance now.
Galaxies swirl open,
rainbows on a peacock's tail.
Other worlds spring up, blossoming,
rooted in the juices of my longing
mixed with her tears.
I am so full of light, the moon
rises to gaze at my face.
In me, pride and innocence
are the same joy,
for I delight in a Presence
that is both Self and God.
All this happens in the bindhu
between two breaths.
Dear one, I won't believe
until I feel the bruise of your footprint
on the inside of my chest.