From the Fishouse

And if a woman has an issue, and her issue in her flesh be blood, she shall be put apart seven days.
And if any man lie with her at all, and her flowers be upon him, he shall be unclean seven days.
Leviticus, Chapter 15

When the body blooms, you must
put your face to it. Lay tongue
to the lathe, the blessed
lather. Song like marble spun
into silk. The human
loom. The thread limning your lips. Breathe
there. Fill your lungs
with birth’s florid shadow. This is the common dream of the living
and dead: not only to meet
the maker, but to taste its sweet. Even God
should know this.