it is still the warmth of the flesh of the arms and legs
and somewhere between
that make us feel more alive
we are not saints
not angels, we are humans still rooted to the ground
less our imaginary wings
and halos and white feathers
if at all we are meant to be
divine
holy
i touch your body and you touch mine
and set ourselves on fire
the world, in some ways, in its darkness
at noon
or night time, gets lighted with our lust
i call it love, because it feels so right
my blood pumping from my heart to my head to my bottom
to my toes
and i moan, and i sigh, and i think, at a glimpse when i close my eyes
i have seen the eyes of God looking so gently
to the eyes of my soul
inside this body,
my bones did not make the sound of the rattling snake
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem