Flavors In My Blood

In the cool of the evening
my Beloved walks down this
cobbled path of little bones
that begins at the almond tree
growing between my eyebrows
and ends at the dark lily pond
in the woods beneath my navel.
We meet in the chuppah heart
under a golden canopy of sighs.
Now I must explain that all
the gods are flavors in my blood,
the goddess just a tremor
of my exhalation.
She takes my hand, asking,
"Did you eat of the tree whose
fruit is Knowledge?"
I answer, "No Beloved, I ate
of that other tree whose fruit
is bewilderment."
She plays her seven stringed vina
which is my body, cacophony of dust.
Mangoes and pomegranates
split themselves without a knife,
because ripeness and wounding
are one.
I dance now.
Galaxies swirl open,
rainbows on a peacock's tail.
Other worlds spring up and blossom,
rooted in the mingled juices
of my longing and her tears.
I am so full of light, the moon rises
to gaze at my face.
In me, pride and innocence
are the same joy.
I delight in a presence that is
both Self and God.
All this happens in the bindhu
between two breaths.
Dear one, I won't believe until
I feel the bruise of your footprint
on the inside of my chest.



Photo by Kristy Thompson