Knead

When you risk being

fully kneaded,

beaten and pressed

into a breath, a heartbeat,

you dissolve

as pure sensation.

You don't need to believe

in anything,

because you taste

Aphrodite's nipple

in a wild blackberry

plucked on a forest trail.

You attain satori

through the fragrance

of honeysuckle,

the sound of a raindrop,

the accidental brush

of my shoulder on yours,

the memory of ancient light

from the farthest star,

which is this very atom

in your hand.

O traveler,

isn't it time to arrive?

Christ didn't say to the hungry,

"This is my soul."

He said, "take, eat,

this is my body."

Brown fingers ply

the corn flour

into a tortilla.

Gravity thickens and folds

the golden distance

into our galaxy

of swirling selves.

Every crumb has the flavor

of un-created radiance.

Don't worry about

your evanescence.

Just savor

the essential oil.

Photo: Hands kneading dough by Renee Byrd