The silence
births indiscernible harmonies,
as color is to white light
my prismatic mind diffracts
the life about me into one
of five categories. I choose
to smell the color of today’s sky,
to sing of all I touch, and to hear
your longing.

I reserve the pure
honey for the cleanest snowfall,
cold sweet manna paradoxically warming.

I am the slight tremble of spirit
nestled under the numbness of frozen skin
still breathing, in utero tucked within the outer layer.
From this vantage I observe the consumed tail of a serpent
tickle my inner ear, deliciously like the soft cotton swab
that she would wield after bath time to lovingly lick the final droplets
of water.

Unexpectedly the harmonies converge, crescendo, and return to
the silence.

I breathe the world eclectic.
I scream the night erotic.

I yearn for deluge more than float.
I am skilled in marking-off cubits.

Though I am Eve, I am unwilling to embark
on this eon-long trek to habitate worlds.
Seeking someone single skilled in edenic gardens
and edible permacultures to share in small-scale humanity.

I sit on my silence, a large colorless comforter that cushions me
from the breakdown of existence into buckets, bottles, and bed pans.
All is warm, all is toasty, here around yon virgins.

© Chagall 2017

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