Never Again

Never again let it be said, "I am not

this body." Just as your breath

is more than air, so your pulp

is more than what you eat and drink.

She who whirled the stars into their chalices,

churning the cream of darkness

in the cauldron of the Milky Way,

has mantled her Spirit in your tears.

She bends the horizons of dawn and evening

into arcs of praise on your half-parted lips.

And if this breath is her garment, 

what is her nakedness if not the fire

that spills from your forehead to your loins?

Kundalini kisses you like this,

revealing the night that has no opposite.

In the cavern of that kiss, it’s not 

what her name means, but its reverberation

that quickens your sap, thrills your toes,

sprouting dendrites into succulent mire.

A hummingbird murmuring Torah. 

The Pleiades entangled in an earthworm.

Tantric mandalas in tree rings.   

Her eponym the seed that Jesus drops

in your flesh furrow, unfathomable.

The whole golden vineyard contained

in that tiny spore, clusters of suns

already tipsy on the vine.

She’s what first light does to a warbler’s throat,

the tremor in your marrow-fat,

your hollow bones her pan pipe perhaps,

a scent of seven caresses up your spine. 

Feel the ocean of silence in your belly,

where She walks on mantric moonbeams

over rippling waters, offering her luscious

bija like a basket of figs. Friend,

all that ripens is made of that sound.


Image: Eve's Granddaughter by Sue Ellen Parkinson