a tundra of bliss;
my fingers weaving between
swords of grass and unknowing insects
like grasping at bedsheets
between the shame
and the ecstasy
of sex

had you ever felt the water swell?
had you ever heard the earth breathe —
no, heave?
some dry heaving, a morning sickness
of morning dew,
of a mother pregnant and aching
to burst open with life

a cruel biology.

all i know is splicing;
reordering of memories and moments
i had never known the pleasure of feeling
cyclical and cosmic
i had never felt the guts and detritus
of the earth swell up and bloat
like the corpse of a water-bogged
fox floating across a frozen river
just beginning to sweat and crack from
the heat of spring

the sky was of death
and death was gorgeous;
an orange haze across the
lake, settling on myself.

i couldn’t feel my nose;
the michigan gales rolled
in like a cruel father.

my chest was damp,
forgotten heart in tune
with the earth’s own

i don’t know how long i
laid there, fingers fumbling
in grass.

the clouds were marbled,
gray, and of plaster.
the great azure stretching,
i found the imprint of an
appendage, talons, pushing against.

god comes in many forms,
so say the prophets.

so say the prophets,
pregnant with numen.

i felt a swirling, bubbling,
and soon everything swelled
and has not stopped since.

Marcelo Quesada