In those after yoga moments, I would want to write about those hands for days. And those other parts, piece by piece. Reduce you to a sum after I turn me down to simmer.
All of them? What could you possibly say about my kidneys you’d ask. (so much)
In those after-yoga moments; the ones I am forgoing now in place of newer moments involving real touch and not pseudo-feeling, you are finally here – well in there, while I am here, because you cannot expect me to write you with accuracy if you watch – and suddenly you are here. The fans have told me it is time to prepare. In two swirls, I hear the water and with it, the door. Hall on. Haul off. Those toes, without pit (pat) meet the floor in creaks from old bones or old wood and you want to sleep (it is late) and I want to write (it is late) and this right here is the root of our fundamental difference.
Lay still and I will paint you in fine ink with fine letters on expensive parchment.
In those after-yoga moments [I am the mourning] when I lay heavy and breathing (belly, belly, belly) corpselike but warm and still breathing (chest - no, BELLY, BELLY) I think about nothing – the gravity of the situation, the sweat beginning to form but frozen in that moment after conception and pre-birth; the water has broken but still no baby – and in nothing I think about her [the knight] a satellite (two buttons & hello) away working, drinking, being (doing) and me just breathing (belly. belly.) against the music.
You say you’d prefer if I did it with ball-point bank pen (blue) on a napkin. You are practical. I am internally extravagant.
In those after-yoga moments, I give my self for parchment. I write in red ink between vain lines, calling out to Greek gods as Christ has abandoned me to the sin (say some) Hark! Calliope, Erato, Polyhymnia, Euterpe! calling out to the earth as the Greeks have abandoned me to the folklore Exalt! Sun, Moon, Fox, Rabbit! calling out to me in my temple as nature has burned me meditations on an ohm to channel Kundalini
And I say those words blaspheme Helios, eros, Persephone, Artemis These, my new friends, Tree, Water, Fire, Ground. You need more, I say. You are confused. (it is late)
In the dimples of your lower back where I put my thumbs, my tongue, where your skin gathers and separates and allows a superficial union of our bodies, albeit small, discreet and undervalued next to those other places, those substantial places where two become just the one by means of divine multiplication, a small bead of sweat grows product of the sweat I pour into you and I catch a glimpse of us reflected therein.
I taste the blue arteries (veins??) bud by bud as neon borealis against the pink the pink against the translucent white I taste the hairs I taste the pores I taste the cells I taste the silence- and where there used to be silence, the breathing- the in and out of life, mine and yours- and where the vocal chords used to be open, bypassed in breath, their vibrations. I taste the decibels I feel them in my bones my digits, my limbs, my core I feel them in your bones, your muscles, your organs, your glands.
In the dimples of your cheeks that appear and disappear where I put my lips, my own dimples, where the heat radiates from within this fire combination of my body and yours originating from those other places those substantial places where you come together and I come alive in the movement, there begins some type of ending that coats each nerve in wax and pins to isolate and test, throwing out the bad ones and reinforcing the good.
A placenta misplaced in the mag-glass oven of an anthill slinks and globs like the girl in class with the small mustache and horrid accent. I watch the speedy angle at which her shoulders clamor from her hair till she becomes the hill broiling her own placenta within moving now both inside and out like amoebas or flan