Category: Poetry and Other Writing

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.