Some parts of your body are alive
and some are numbed by shame.
The purpose of meditation
is to wake up the Goddess
in your supernova toes,
arouse erotic photons in your bones,
let neutrinos ring like mindfulness bells
in the temple of your rib cage,
make every proton rhythmic with a star,
inspire a leukocyte to waltz
with a red dwarf in your brain.
This is how ancestors dance
with angels in your blood.
Have your received a morning glory's
a kiss of dust on your sole?
O yogini, devoted monk, I know
you've been trying to sing without lips,
"I am not this body!"
But Adam was a breath of mud.
His first wife, Lilith, liked to ride
on top, and Jesus died
on the Tree of Life shouting,
"I won't leave anything behind!"
He claimed each semen sparkle
and every tear you mingle
with marrow and loam.
The half-chewed morsel
of bagel in your mouth
is the kingdom of his perfect joy.
Don't you know he has a secret name
that means, "Miracle of Worms"
and Bodhi Tree is Body Tree?
That's why Tara turns green
when her fingers stroke the ground.
It's why we share food,
pray for sacred land and water,
laugh when we see babies,
spin like wizened leaves at sunset
when we die, keep coming
back for more.
Hear a reading of this poem on SoundCloud