Knead

 

When you risk being fully kneaded,

beaten and pressed into this heartbeat,

you dissolve as a flame of sensation

and don't have to believe in anything

because you taste Aphrodite's nipple 

in a blackberry. You pluck Christ 

from a twig on the forest trail, 

attain satori through the fragrance 

of honeysuckle, the sound of a raindrop, 

ancient light from an extinct star, now

merely an electron on a neuron's tip,

 the flicker of this thought. 

O traveler, isn't it time to arrive? 

Jesus didn't say to the hungry, 

“this is my soul.” He said, 

“take, eat, this is my body."

Brown fingers ply the corn flour 

into  a tortilla. Your sunburnt shoulder 

shrugs off the strap of your bathing suit.

One warmth glowing in two coals, our

gravity thickens and folds the golden 

batter of its distances into galactic

swirling selves, each crumb flavored 

by the un-created. Don’t anticipate 

our evanescence, dear, or cling to love. 

Just keep growing young and 

savoring essential oils.

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