She who churned
the cream of darkness into galaxies
has entered my chest.
Let it never again be said,
I am not this body.
Her whisper is a river of
fire,
burning every scripture,
drowning all my prayers
in the current of this breath.
What words mean
cannot thrill us like their sound.
The heart only hears
when the mind is still.
A hummingbird murmuring Torah,
fervor of the cedar wind,
ululation of bees, one resonance.
Pleiades entangled in an earthworm,
tiniest seed
in the furrow between heartbeats
filled with a golden wilderness
of feathered air.
The name of the Goddess
is what first light does to a thrush's lungs,
the hollow in my bones
a pan pipe perhaps.
Her song is my marrow-fat,
the scent of seven caresses
on my spine.
Lips half-parted, She reveals
the unfathomable night
that has no opposite.
Kundalini kisses you like this.
Let it never again be said,
I am not this body.
Photo by Peter Shefler
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