For Prunella Vulgaris
Burrow your index beneath one
strand of braided root, it winds
moist lawn with the imminence of purple globes
mowed each Sunday, torn from the tap as any self
rooted weed; swiftly returning clusters, whirled
and wise of death.
She who I locate at the hidden play
ground, labyrinth base of berry bramble and swing post
she who I pray to and pinch-snap from Earth
who I twirl along lash and sweep between lips
before I take her crown and velvet cuff
winged over silk spine, wholly
under tongue where my waters flood
your many ears, your postpartum bracts
shed of their twilight blooms—this morning
I saw a plump bee nuzzling
its entire head in you. How does it feel
now to shine in
the hive’s copper goop,
to be comb
cell sheathed in wax for winter’s dark
communion?
How does it feel to be
made sweeter by a body
whose flight we chose to call
dancing?