after Bron Bateman




1. Our circadian rhythms–

your texts shadow my fingers

day and night, doorpost and gates.
2. On Saturday mornings

as Miles finishes “Blue in Green”

the cadence of your kisses

chants a prayer of renewal

down my stomach and thighs

and I stand on the crown of my toes

calling kadosh, holy, holy

to the ceiling
3. You tell fables of unhappy desire

populated by beast & sweat,

moon & thicket & blood,

beautiful thunder,

humming light.
In your dreams,

I worked the fields

seven years & seven more

just to see your flesh,

& you gleaned the sheaves

& vowed to follow me home

fierce as death
4. As a baby they called you boy,

hoping & wishing it be so

but you named yourself

queen of my heart,

scrubbing yourself clean

to emerge fresh from the water

like a newborn into the hands of a midwife
5. Our bed is a re-dedicated temple,

a weekly unavowable altar where

I drink your wine & dip your bread in salt

& when you kiss me

& tell me “remember this,”

I laugh & call you kohen gadol,

& this our holy of holies
The sweet bitterness of quenched thirst,

a midrash of longing,

a sabbath table of flesh & feeling

naked, delicious,
A taste of the world to come amen v’amen.