Alembic

Alembic

The heat in the palm of your hand’s

a trivet I set my heart against.

Bare and without a bowl the only home is

is air and the care of your slight brine

tongue’s a simple wine in the tabernacle

of your mouth.  The votive sacral

light is lit in your iris.  Your ruby blaze,

contained but at ache of praying,

waits between the closing

of the doors and the knock, a primed

pump hearing, the ear rising, the draw

of years after dowsing this spot

and water, always water, we smell

it first, a scent of subtle musk

at lie on the arm held out, at reach, see?  Eat!