Breadmaking

Harvest comes
and with the sickle moon for scythe
I reap the blades of wheat
populating your skin,
the seeds I once planted
are now grown full and ready,
aching, begging
to fulfill their purpose
and on my stone be laid,
grinded into flour,
a fine white essence
welcoming the teardrops
of my passionate poem,
its liquid flame,
a throbbing matter
I now knead
with firm fingers
(am I forming your body?),
a sea of dough,
body of my woman
now baking in my furnace,
in the fires I honed
from my own flesh,
hot loaves rising,
a feast on my table dressed
and a hunger with each bite
in your skin sown,
a new seed to renew
the eternal dance,
our lovemaking.

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