Don't Forget This Breath

Don't forget this breath.
She is a mother on her pilgrim way,
nursing infant Spring after midnight,
searching for a resting place, perhaps
an albérgue in your chest.
Take her in, hug her gently, it is Winter.
Don't forget this breath.

Lure her to your secret bridal chamber,
Myram, paramour of Jesus,
Sophia, serpent of moonlight entwining
the life tree, your spine.
Surely you remember her,
veiled in the name of Silence,
shaped as the hour of shadows
just before dawn.

Don't forget this breath,
oceanic pulse of the living planet
who wells up through your sacrum,
overflowing earthworm songs,
larva mantras, mycelium chant,
compost of grandmothers.

She is a sacred mountain inside you,
lifting mineral to fire, belly to crown.
Stand on the peak of wonder
inviting the stars into your heart.

Don't forget this breath, who suckles you
with ancient milk, most bittersweet myrrh,
vision-giving sap pressed through your stem,
bursting into seven flowers, each
a portal to some lost heaven.

On the trellis of your vagus nerve,
She opens other blossoms too;
petals of fire in your hand,
a rose at the center of each palm,
wild scarlet poppies in the soles
of your feet, those hollows
that kiss the loam.

You have bones of prayer.
Your blood is clustered with doorways.
There is no celestial realm above
that does not float in your protoplasm.

Don't forget the one who flows through you,
for whatever flows is She,
whatever streams into your perineum,
whatever breathes into your stretchmarks,
your crow's feet, your unsealed fontanelle,
every wound and orifice of you a holy cave
leading to the radiance of blackness.

Each cell of dark marrow
a golden palace of fragrances,
every ribosome a dryad shrine
for some small goddess of the wild
wandering through your endoplasmic reticulum.

Surrender your exhalation,
but to whom, to whom?
Offer this breath to this breath,
a Lady of many sobriquets:
Ishtar, Shakti, Shekinah, Nana Buluku
who dwells in your mitochondria
giving birth to suns and moons.

Don't forget this breath,
bow down, worship your body.
Don't forget.
Bow down.
Worship your flesh.

Listen to this poem HERE.
Image from Botticelli's 'Primavera.'