We recreate our bodies
in exigent exchanges of breath
—sixteen percent oxygen
supersaturated with vapor
emerging from our chests’ wells.
We remake us in draughts
across your lips’ pulpy flesh
where it plunges
into the fathoms of your lungs.
Your sweat beads
in Appalachia’s July air,
creating novel salines the tongue
learns to yearn for,
across your body’s landscapes:
the edges of your chest’s transept
where your breasts lie like misted peaches,
the thumb that’s been pressed
between your nape and the mattress,
the vein running parallel
from the peak of your pelvis
to the pulpit where I pray and imbibe
the pure waters of Ein Gedi.
You quietly sing the Song of Songs,
* * *