REMADE

REMADE

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,

each distinct
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,
recreated, remade.

* * *

*This is another in my poem of the day series that I share on Facebook. You can backtrack through the posts or use the tag “Poem of the Day” to read previous entries.

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