The moan, the desperately searching eye
of the moon grown full and aching.
It is the eternal, continuous, the serpent
curled; the ripened plum, the endless sky.
It is the breathless gasp, a waiting,
an emerging; the womb round with life,
the baby's cry, the new head emerging
from darkness and liquid. It is liquid,
the long row of waves cresting, flowing,
cresting, crashing. It is the belly of the sea,
the basin holding ancient life. It glares,
a Cyclops beaming, the mythical giant.
The longest vowel, it circles the mouth;
rolls off the lips like a kiss; takes shape deep
in the throat, guttural. There it is as the zero,
the number before all numbers, nothingness
that is deeply full, making a one into ten.
It's the exclamation and the force of recognition
bubbling out of each person, realizing that yes,
yes, and oh yes, I know
exactly, and the exact
sound, too, of yes, yes, oh oh I
love you yes,
but also the no that is death.
It resonates against time;
is breath, the perfect globe of life.
© by Christa