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.
You burst your fontanelle, God’s names pour out.
They become stars so far away, they are not yet created.
Thoughts dissolve in the bee-hum of an ungleaned garden,
galaxies of milkweed, relics of rusted armor among
wild aster, husks
of some forgotten battle in your body.
Helmet full of sod, breastplate shot with Autumn crocuses:
they teach you ancient tears. Nothing has its word
upon it now. This
is the meadow of echoes.
You navigate by fragrance, guided among blossoms
by a longing that over-foams the brim of 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.
"I" no longer need to whisper "Thou."
Your veil is the wilderness itself.
Down where roots entangle, the wedding has
already happened, weaving the Winter to come
with every lost April. Now you are the wreathe
of red berries in a crone’s brittle hair, anointed
with the chrism of some distant jasmine breath.
In the unraveled fallow of your chest, vows are broken
every time a moist bud bursts into petals of fire.
Was there ever a bride, a groom? Or only
one love, braiding rays of sun and moon
on the trellis of your missing rib?
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