Emancipated Braid of Needs

Hold down this river in your throat.
Let the creeks leap from your thighs,
and the uptake of royal ferns at your feet
lead the search up your stomach
and around in your chest.
 
In breathed smoke of a child night crying,
smelt iron in the shoulder spears.
 
Sucking that air from your breast
and exhaling Winter into the temple behind your hair
at the anxiety furnace
 
until meteors of oxytocin fill the kissing ghost
of your crying
and cathartic bells reveal the Church of the Other's first revival
in the waist where you stretched my flesh several sizes
to wrap your own underneath
to be seeing you in the chapel. There
was never a ring so mute
that it chased through true a fairy soul.
 
Break open your wings' lengths.
These are the days of the third angels of a love.