You swim in me to feed and breathe.

The gulps of fluid in your lungs are


your lungs. Into them: what has

already traveled me. If I breathe


a stamen, you are stamen.

If I taste bitter salt, you are char


and ash. What do you take

when I take in another’s body,


when I soak my neck in oil that sings

gardenia but is not flower?


The journey inside me has

something to do with blood,


carrying on it like barges the wide outside

you already taste, and all you will soon see.


I suck this sodden spring air down to you

and everything is dying.


Everything is beginning to loosen, drop

its seeds and say what’s needed is done.


They come up from the ground, these shoots.

They come out of the trees, these flowers to fruit,


and the air parts for them, the fired dirt

swaddles the ready germ.


There is so much ahead now, there is only

time to unravel, to say what next.


Your cells are dividing to build you, and yet, like

the rest of us, you begin dying too.


We take our time, and while we gorge on,

what we have eaten is eaten forever.