Friction

Here's a secret:
friction of breath on flesh
ignites the grace of the Beloved in your body.
You chose this birth. 

A Goddess of inconceivable beauty
yearns to nurse you with streams of moon blood.
There has never been a more perfect time
to breathe.

When grace overflows your soul it takes
the form of gristle and bone.
Why not savor gravity's red wine,
pressed from stones?

There is a reason why pain shapes you
in the form of an earthen chalice;
why you have such hollow roots
and abandoned places inside you;

Why a green syllable spirals up your stem,
forming a cry of two petals;
and mother coyote sighs, birthing her pups
among the frosted ferns, a chant of fire
bursting from her lungs.

Now fall into the howl pollen
between outgoing and incoming prayers.
Repose in the silent kiss of breath
on breath, the touch of 'So’ham'
against your ancestors' bones.

Ashtavakra says, Layam vraja:
'dissolve now!'
When the inner sky outshines
this dream of clouds, your skin will contain
both heaven and earth.

Sheathe a warrior’s blade in your
softest inhalation,
a blue flame of dispassion inside
this golden flame of yearning.
God is the aura within the aura:
this wickless blaze.

Feel the nerve of lightning
in your spine's hollow
where the earth dangles from the sun.
Exhale and slay ten thousand fears.

Your surrender heals oceans and forests.
With the death of a star in your gaze
turn every stranger's eye into a cave
of wounded diamonds.
Photo by Aile Shebar