Because I want to know what color you are
the layers and layers of
that epidermal organ
beneath which you reside
to see the shade of purple in your veins
the pulse of red in your arteries
the exact trace of gold in your bone marrow,
to see the sunburned subterranean of your chest.
And with my hand, I’d hold these parts of you
these inside beautiful things to see
if the colors swirl, blend or bend,
what patterns and shapes they make
when they mingle with my simple dissecting fingers
Because I want to know where you keep God,
Maybe inside the meat of your hands that
glow crimson on guitar strings, or between the
syncopated notes of your sandpapered voice;
maybe inside the bend of your smile is where
you hold your prayers, or maybe behind
the iris of your eye is where your wings hide.
Because I want to know
If I took apart your heart chamber by chamber,
Slid my thumb inside the arterial valve,
would it be covered with cholesterol or tears?
If I opened your stomach would I find
cherry fragments or whole bits of carnage,
the residue of broken dreams or
the saplings of promises believed,
would I discover which direction your river flows?
Searching the crinkles in your brain,
swimming among the folds of your jungle genius,
would I find a thing called your soul and could I taste it too?
Would it fit the contours of my mouth,
bending like chocolate,
would it savor like your swirling rhythms
that pounding part of you under the ribs,
when I put you back together again,
wrapping you in layer after layer
of your skin like a fragile cocoon,
could I still see the kiss I left on your heart?