From the New Hymnal
I peel open the blood orange this morning
and hear your voice say my name,
returning me to when I was inside
the temple of your body. Taste of fruit
evokes heat and curves a color
of the light of seeing you bare.
I remember the border of known and
unknown in you, the travel between two
women in love remarkable enough
to need an archive. Let me record
the taste of this juice in my mouth,
the fleshy pulp dripping from my fingers.
I remember yours as I swallow,
how they signed and dated my skin.
By afternoon, you make marmalade
that draws to the glowing jar a Question Mark.
I try to imagine its chrysalis-wet wings
unfurling like a crumpled, long-thought-lost love
letter. Since last night, I cannot stop traveling
back to the way our bodies made a trellis
for blossoming. Enclosed by your mouth and hands,
I caught myself beginning to speak, as if my
bodied-voice had been returned.
Upon your arriving, I wonder if I do not
deserve such bounty but want to learn to open
to the answer, yes. What was that we prayed
in the morning’s chlorophyll-soaked room,
make us your breath, your core.