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 heart chuppah
under a golden canopy of sighs.
Now I must explain that
all the gods are flavors in my blood,
all the goddesses just tremors
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 juices of my longing
and her tears.
I am so full of light the moon rises
to gaze at my face.
For in me, pride and innocence
are the same joy.
I delight in the 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