transfigurations at the orchard

of this time, she knows nothing
except that she ripens in his mouth;
that breasts are not, therefore, more than fruits
full of her desire and filling his boughs
unabashedly;
that he is not a tree which is merely a tree
but the body which conceives, of her
and of her blossom (a single blossom, pulpous and sweet)
the segments, all the pulp, the honey and the juice -
in synthesis, her whole body.

and he knows nothing, of this time, except that, suddenly
she is the one who becomes the mouth that craves his fruits
and sucks, from his blossom with it brimming
all the honey;
and that, by some enchantment – maybe of the earth that
sometimes is Eden, maybe of the water that is always water -
in her he sprouts, yes, him, a tree again; yet, not a tree
which is merely a tree, but as fecund and as full
as a whole orchard.

nothing more do they know of this time, him and her;
except that his mouth, her mouth, are the beginning
and the end of these transfigurations
which fill them, ripe, of one another.

© 2006 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®