Ave, Ave, Om

On a Monday we piled
up blankets and sat, legs
spread, in a room of dawn—of peaches
and moss and a silvery full moon—in
a city of cold dark night. I heard you
fight that plum pit stuck
in your throat with devout
calls. In every inhale was
another woman’s wish to
remember her happiest
self. Other people’s pining
under the roof of my mouth
traveling that vessel pathway,
stirring up the scolding centuries
of fear of longing, breaking it in
to pieces that with a flex of my
most precious muscles I spit
out in cries to Shiva or was it
Maria, ave, ave, om. The air
was sweet and hot with us.