the word for vagina is dawn

In Kogi, the word for vagina is munse,
the same word as that moment their priest sings the dawn
after hiking up to the same narrow ledge, every morning, for the prayer,
leans his back into the mountain, turns his eyes toward the sea,
until a surge through his body signals the white light of the munse,
the great mother’s doorway, has delivered him into the new day

Just another day, like every day before that…
I want to reach before even that
to that moment God looked up at first dawn,
as she spilled it and all of the universe forth,
and said only, jaw hanging open in awe, “thank you.”

I want to know if the bird sees the dew the same way I do
or if beauty is impossible to see
without knowing its absence intimately.

What I really want to know is,
is this the start of everything, really,
that God looking up from her work and being stunned,
and the god tending her, being stunned by that awe,
and her god, and hers, and on it goes,
and goes, and delivers life to itself
a yoni folded over yoni over yoni,

as if it is all, really, existence
kissing itself as it kisses itself
as it releases everything and embraces it
in the big bang of every breath,
every accordion Mandelbrot nautilus galaxy pucker
of every holy sphincter of your life,

Saying no, saying yes, saying oh no,
saying thank you, you don’t have to know
how to carry a tune,
you don't have to know how to draw hands,
all you have to know is
that there is nothing sweeter right now
than gazing a beagle to sleep
while the gold dust mites
nest in his eyebrows.

Zippers for chests

Zippers for Chests

It would be easier
if they made zippers for chests,
he tells me, running his fingers along
the scar, stitched stem to stern
down his torso
like an Amazonian snake.

It kelates, adopts his yoga
to writhe with its own will.
I like watching it move. Sometimes
it’s all I see, as if it is the first born, the host,
and he has merely latched onto its back.

If I soften my gaze, I see it initiate
his movement, his body responding
like kelp drawn across a wave.

It moves, undulates, surrenders,
another expression
of a larger current.

Sometimes, when he allows it,
I reach around from behind,
run my fingers lightly
enough to feel the warp and weft,
reading the Braille of this body.

I do this as quietly as possible,
my fingers listening
to each breath, careful
to let what has been closed
so carefully
to stay
that way.

-Eilish Nagle 2017