You are white swan feathers,
Friday’s milk, bones in the desert.
Each time I kiss you, deliberately,
I watch my hands knead your clay.
The center of the restless river
reaches the parable place,
washes the soil away to reveal
the supporting stone, your grave
body under the weight of words
spoken by an innocent tongue.
I pull you between my legs,
kiss your breathless life,
watch all the small stones abandon
the flower bed, the soles of my shoes.
I put my hands into your body,
dig through skin, flesh, reach bone,
reach the flow of the river,
your image that still lives underwater.
I kiss you, feather breath expelled,
swan woman, snowy white,
my desert bones dry out all thought
of water, of waiting out this bright sorrow,
this silence of cross nails and stones.
Abandon the sweet away. Come,
enjoy the Friday milk, leave all traces
of the river to the lake.