Blood Meditation
| 2020
You have already pulled a knife
across my heart, and the rope has already
gripped my wrists drawing blood
Lying there, my shoulder blades ache,
and there is blood collecting in
the corners of my mouth.
It is no perfume – it has no taste of distillation –
it is odorless,
I breathe the fragrance myself,
and know it and like it
It would intoxicate me also,
but I shall not let it.
I hold it in my lungs – it is mine to love forever
Out of the dimness opposite equals advance –
always substance and increase, always sex;
always a knit of identity – always distinction –
always breeding pleasure -
After, the smoke of my own breath;
Whispers, vibrates, roots itself in you
My respiration becomes your inspiration,
It is the spring, and the liver.
The blood and air move through my lungs and towards my Soul.
I meditate.
The hugging and fucking Bed-fellow
will sleep at my side through the remainder of the night,
and withdraw at the break of the day, with tread,
Leaving white towels on my floor, swelling the air with their plenty,
shall I postpone my acceptation and realization,
and scream at my eyes later this afternoon?
Showing my best, and dividing it from the worst
sex vexes sex.
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things,
while you sleep I am silent,
and go bathe and admire myself.
Welcome has been every organ and attribute of me,
and those of any bedfellow hearty and clean;
Not an inch, or fragment of an inch is depraved
and none shall be more familiar than the rest.
I am satisfied.
Clean and sweet is my Soul,
And clean and sweet must be all that it not my Soul.
All that is the blood running to my Soul.
I must not dishonor myself to you, my Soul.
I believe in you.
And you must not be debased to my other.
Urge, urge and urge,
always the repulsed urge of the world
Lack one lacks both,
and the gender unseen may be proved by the gender seen,
which in turn may give proof to those depraved of the world.
My blood moves again.
I am naked, and I cannot be sure
if you are as well. In the room, the talkers
come and go, and I have heard what they said,
The talk of the beginning and the end;
But I won’t talk of the beginning or the end.
Blood carries so many secrets
On the telephone this morning,
I can only hear its little murmurs in my arteries,
its incessant whine, in the quiet
night's bed just before sleep. Blood says
You are important and sometimes, you are not.
