Mira pushes aside the mountain you are climbing

Desire is never one way. Black

          snakes crawl through your throat. The divine longs

for human proximity to divinity. The divine longs

            for touch. You have not wanted

a body. And you have

            wanted. A careless

tongue can make chatter

but unrequited love

          can make an avalanche.

Your teeth chatter and you know

            somewhere a funeral parade is moving, one ant

after another marching. Your snake shed its skins as the curve of a               pilgrimage

          awaiting dawn. Heaven is too much a metaphor

to be of use to a lover weeping for

a false love. Every shaman needs a healer

and every God a devotee they can admire.

When God comes back from the pilgrimage, you are more

          plump. Everyone can see your wisdoms

sprouting. This time — dangerous. Even women

          will cast stones. Watch the people’s hands: they carry

shards of their half-spoken dreams. But you have

                          invented an embrace. In the first worship,

you make the one devoted to devotion devoted to you.

You bring the mountain

into your lips. Without

prayer, your mouth blooms.