Spilling Lupine

 

We made love in a thousand ways

before we had bodies.

We had other bodies.

We went star-tasting in the dark,

wore mouse robes, burrowed in alfalfa,

thawed from high crystal places

into torrents, transporting flowers

to the valley, spilling lupine, aster,

spores of Indian paintbrush.

Mingling florescent subterranean cilia,

we came up pungent mushrooms,

learning to be present as our own medicine.

Now, distanced by fingertips and mouths,

by words we cannot speak

because they might break open

and bleed out our silence,

we bravely drop the veil of mind,

inventing new ways to awaken

the one pure thousand-gendered

flesh that has no name.

We dance inside the bud,

cocooned in what will be torn apart

by wings that yearn to make rainbows.

Infinitesimal holograms of sky,

we scent the storm, the peculiar

fragrance of whirling,

while suckling our amethyst roots,

we taste again the stars.

Photo: I took this on my favorite hike near Mt. Rainier