And what would God do with my lips?
Fat, skin and nerve. What food will God slip
over to suck, nip and fold between
what had once been my teeth?
My coffee bit and country round
bone travelers, the feet of my mouth,
where would God take them?
And what would God do with my nose?
What flowers and salt would God inhale?
The scent of a body at dusk
after working in the field? Or after baking bread
in the wet heat? What bodies would God
warm? Whose fingers would God allow
to love what had been my mouth,
or my rough strike beard? God
in all of God’s wood would taste
pine and moss and oak fine wine.
What would God arrange for his ears
to ring and echo echo echo the heart?