how many rivers, how many earths
have fused to make you flesh—
deep-petalled eyes dew-closed
as poppied hills of cathay; veins
marmor-blue and tigris-still
enravelled in your legs; furrows
of your breath-arched ribs
the lightsplayed vales of jordan—
how many rivers, how many earths
have swelled to make you god
© 2017 Christie Florit