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, alone, 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 |