Mead

The orgasm that matters

is the one that lasts forever.

The others were just signs,

intimations of some

darker elegance

at the center of a whirling flame.

Your fontanelle explodes

and all the names pour out.

They become stars so far away

they are not yet created.

Thoughts dissolve in the bee-hum

of an ungleaned meadow.

Relics of rusted armor lie

in the clover, husks

of some forgotten battle

in your heart.

A helmet full of sod,

a breastplate shot

with Autumn crocuses...

They teach you ancient tears.

Nothing has a name now.

This is the place for forgetting echoes.

You navigate by fragrance,

guided from blossom to blossom

by a longing that foams over

the brim of your perfect contentment

like mead, the honeyed wine

that Jesus shared with Mary

from the cup of his gaze.

A kiss that is everywhere

needs no lips.

Not that the body becomes useless,

but "I" no longer need

to whisper "Thou."

Your veil is the wilderness.

Down where roots entangle

the wedding has already happened,

weaving this Winter to last Spring.

Anointed with the chrism

of this breath,

you wear the whole vineyard

as a wreathe crown.

Was there ever a Bride, a Bridegroom?

Or have they always been braided

like rays of sun and moon

on the trellis of your missing rib?

In this unraveled garden,

vows are broken every time

a moist bud bursts

into petals of fire.

Art by Matthew Havig