Under the Rose Moon

On the longest day
of the year, under
the full Rose Moon, I
hunt for holy nectar.
I hum through amblers
on 51st street drawn
by the petals and blue
glass before Her. I
borrow fire from
someone else’s
supplication and
watch, wait. Finally,
there is a fish
on the end of the flame
I lit for you. It tugs
and pulls and gives
you legs and ears. I
can bow and see
how the child peers
from under Her night-sky
robes. I can see that
Her hair is dark, and
can talk to Her, and you,
in the tiger lily air. A day

later, with a nagging
pit in my belly, I
lay flat, wrists out,
and like a book disclosing
her deep, paper gut,
the walls and windows
ascend to some
far-above, phallic-curved
meeting point. I am
the altar. My needles
flicker. Fish
suck at my meridians.
Shapeless, now, you
come with Her