I removed your face and set it on
the bedside table like my
grandmother's diamond wedding ring.
I fondled your nipples with my breath,
purple tipped mushrooms trembling 
out of sod, amethyst deceivers,
laccaría amethystína, whose roots 
mingle with mycelium a hundred 
pungent underground miles.
No wind can uproot your breasts.
I cradled them in my palms,
gently slid them into poached egg dishes
because the only alters we have left
are in the kitchen.
Carefully unzipped your spine,
the little ping of each vertebra,
the sound of bees over a Spring stream.
What I found inside your body?
Another body.
And another in that, mistaken
for the soul.
You used my missing rib to
lever the stone from its cavern of cruor.
My heart,
freed from the word "until."
Your grandfather's golden
pocket watch, my face
with its big and little hands
spread to a quarter of three.
Unwound, ticking stopped.
You did that to me.
You closed the lid engraved
with forgotten names, and snapped
it over my timeless pineal gland.
Set it on the table by the jewel.
Then raveled the luminous rope
from my thighs, winding it into
your coil of naked space,
my vagus tethered to countless stars
reeled out of me with all their
ecstatic hooks
as a fisherwoman nets a silvery 
glistening mist of sardines
from the indecipherable oceanic dream.
You emptied my night.
No longer haunted by the amphibian
sparkle of previous lives,
I awoke in holy blackness,
arms outstretched for generations
past and to come.
You held all the light now,
all the embryos.
You could weave demons.
But you had no fingers, and no face.
Nor had I.
We've evaporated into 
each other's geometry
of solitude.
We've become a single eye
after the dream is over,
resting awake inside,
just before opening,
just before creation.

Mushroom photo by Steve Axford

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