How the Words Made Flesh

After a summer of lake-escape
to cool my ankles,
lap my thighs,
while gullible and terned birds
beak up sea weed
for what's beneath the tangle...
After heat within
and without
killed the too little,
killed the too much,
silent waters were our only release.
Now, the wind has come back,
drying sweat to salt.
Giving back the bread of breath.

We speak of you
as we drive again,
the night road,
because you have driven us
as far as you could.
Despite all the stories of why,
why not is
below the tangle  --
is the real food
the seabirds knew.

While you rest back home
in your restlessness,
the full moon slides along the chrome
of our car roof.
And only Cassiopeia, my upside down
initial/friend  (as you are),
can be seen walking between clouds,
on two vergings of light,
offering her pointed breasts for comfort.
In my darkness, her light
-- your day, my night --
no difference that I can see,
by starsight,
where a moving cloud takes a soft bite of the moon.

Above us the photo reverse
of  the nightskin
where star-pores lead
to other universes,
seaports, sweet as the holes of elimination
and entry -- taboos we must not
touch, tongue except at night, and then,
the unsaid finds words beyond our heads,
treeing, tri-aging, re-making a life of feeling
where cricket legs sing about who we really are,
who you are,
not far from that star.
MaryAnn Bennett Rosberg