In the beginning,
God was monobloc - but
love is motion and
God grew hermetic upon
itself, swelling
smaller until
wrecked - as red
and purpled valves
syncopate - an
explosion.
And now
love is any hole-shape, every
writhing cavity behind
ribs, a empty vector for your
lovers, your
children.
As you curled into the
unexpected vacancies
in a father,
a mother, your
lovers.
Each clasp in arms
as if it might be the last. Each
hollowed part a fresh wound
of gentle fingers.
Or
you leaped upon me
like a panther and now your shadow
hides in my throat, waiting for
you to find it.
Or
the whole agony a pulling
together, a drawing apart, an automatic
resemblance.
Or
the will to listen
to the reverberation of
that primal heart
broken - an echo
that tastes like our blood.
Lay your hands upon
me and I will
be at peace. Sleep
in my veins and let me rest
in yours.
Together,
maybe,
we could pretend we
are more than small dolls in a
matryoshka. Each
nested bit a piece of
God
trying to
put itself
back
together.