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11/22/2009 10:49:38 AM

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Sometimes we collide, tectonic plates merging, 
continents shoving, crumpling down into the molten 
veins of fire deep in the earth and raising 
tons of rock into jagged crests of Sierra.

Sometimes your hands drift on me, milkweed's 
airy silk, wingtip's feathery caresses, 
our lips grazing, a drift of desires gathering 
like fog over warm water, thickening to rain.

Sometimes we go to it heartily, digging, 
burrowing, grunting, tossing up covers 
like loose earth, nosing into the other's 
flesh with hot nozzles and wallowing there.

Sometimes we are kids making out, silly 
in the quilt, tickling the xylophone spine, 
blowing wet jokes, loud as a whole 
slumber party bouncing till the bed breaks.

I go round and round you sometimes, scouting, 
blundering, seeking a way in, the high boxwood 
maze I penetrate running lungs bursting 
toward the fountain of green fire at the heart.

Sometimes you open wide as cathedral doors 
and yank me inside. Sometimes you slither 
into me like a snake into its burrow. 
Sometimes you march in with a brass band.

Ten years of fitting our bodies together 
and still they sing wild songs in new keys. 
It is more and less than love: timing, 
chemistry, magic and will and luck.

One plus one equal one, unknowable except 
in the moment, not convertible into words, 
not explicable or philosophically interesting. 
But it is. And it is. And it is. Amen.

Marge Piercy

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