The Annunciation and, Thereafter, Word

It doesn’t matter which.

When a bodied—
When a disembodied—
Poet spills an old or instant

Whispered poem
Warm into your ear,
You thaw, swoon.

Don’t take it personally.
You do. Words adore a deep ear,
Swim there. Swell.

You swell. Like love.
Like an infected splinter.
Like broken bone.

Like a virgin—beholden
To no one—in the beak
Of muscled Tao.

(The greatest love: indifferent.)

Like a whore—beholden
To all—in the belly
Of Dzogchen.

(Everything is nectar.)

Like a man’s member,
Dreaming.
Dreaming outside you.

(Everything is nectar.)

No, let us return to center,
The oldest metaphor assigned
To those with wombs.

Arms and legs turn large
Inside. Turn, making room.

The child slides out
With salmon eyes,
A tiny red mouth,

White wings,
Black webbed feet,
All else human.

Slippery, name her.
Kiss and clean her. Nurse.

Learn her wishes.
Teach her sounds.

This way-faced purse
Of milk will outlive you,
Feed fishy, wingy similes
To multitudes.

Pray they never
Nail her down.

2013