Not A Poem

“In the beginning the lord created the universe 

through a current of sound.” ~Vedic text

 

This is not a poem,

just a murmur whose poor thoughts

don't reach the edge of the page.
Just a reminder that, in all the holy books,

Spirit and Breath are the same word.

Sophia Wisdom birthed the sun,
dancing with the deep green shadow of God.

Your inhalation is her body.

Though the womb of the Mother enfolds the galaxies,

She whirls inside each cell of your flesh,

trickling constellations down your spine,

weaving the starlight of awareness

into your vagus nerve.

Call her the dignity of whatever flows,

blood or water, semen, lava, desire -

the very motion of flowing is her form.

Call her the wind that awakens at sunset,

honey sweating from a comb,

the delight of Ruuh, the Chi who runs

like lightning through your bones.

What is your substance, really?

A finespun cotton instantly consumed

by the golden spark of her love.

Your breath ignites the stars on fuses

of pure attention: call it wonder.

In the temple of your lungs, you tend her fire.

Permeate the earth with the fragrance of "B'ishm'illa."
Honor her by listening to bees and you will hear

the voice of the Magdalene.

Yet this Lady’s most beautiful name  

floats like the moon on the ocean of your diaphragm.

A river of amazement carries you there,

pouring through your hollow places like the wine

that was saved for the end of the wedding.

How will you know when you are born?
By being breathed.