I’d meet myself under the tree of life,
lay me down,
rest my hips between my hands
and eat for hours at a time.
I’d eat all night,
come into the stars and back again,
reborn, reborn, reborn,
and into the next day
and when the light of morning touched my face I’d feel both warm inside and out.
I’d lick every remnant of inside from my outside until my flesh had nothing left to say
and then I’d pray and pray and pray
and sing the sweet sap of orgasm to my tongue once more.
If I could eat myself alive I’d be alive for sure.
I’d know my body like both sides of a coin and I’d flip to see who stays and goes,
who comes and who watches,
who feels the throes of my pelvis rocking
and I’d explore every possible movement, every probable and impossible reaction to every twist and plunge of my tongue.
I’d be patient with me.
I’d laugh and I’d chew and I’d sip sweet sweat as it rolled from once flat spaces to those who have grown stretched and round.
I’d find all of my secrets and invite them out in the cover of night, under the cover of the tree of life
and then I’d sit myself down on the branch’s long swing and I’d pump until I could fly out into the wind,
whispering to myself that I could find myself here again