> jumping into life.

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There beneath the bodhi tree
he cradled me in his lap.
Fed me yogurt and rice
from his fingers,
brought me back to life. I was starving.
I suckled those dark fingers,
dripping honey,
dripping salt,

I watched the sun
move through the leaves.
My eyes focused.

My eyes opened.
The creek was full of
clear water nearby.
It smelled of sulfur,
it smelled of citrus,
roses, incense, and death.

Fruit grew ripe, split
along its swollen skin, was eaten
by the screaming birds. Still he fed me.

Soon I could walk. Soon I walked
away. My belly rounded, my feet bare.
I was gone a long time. Then
came back to sit beside him.
Watched the moon move through the branches,
dripping nectar,
dripping blood. I was thirsty.
I drank deep.

He fed me from his fingers, gently.
We watched the morning star.

Yay - brought to mind Agha Shahid Ali's "Film Bhajan Found on a 78 RPM" from his collection "Rooms Are Never Finished" - ever read him? Beautiful stuff - the poem I was thinking about is an erotic/passionate lovesong of spirit sung to the 'dark god' (Shiva, in that case). Think you might like Shahid in general. A generous spirit.

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