By Rochelle Jewel Shapiro

Words sobbed into shoulders, 

into sweaty hair, the clavicle, 

the forehead, the breast your breast  

is pressed against, into the vibrations 

of each other`s solar plexus, the pelvis, 

the churning belly that is shared 

by both bodies in that one moment, 

the ear—its lobe and lobule,   

its pinna and auricle,  

into the upper and lower lip, exhaled 

through the nostrils and pores. 


Words wept with bent heads,  

quivering shoulders, rent throats, 

welling noses, on knees,

prostrate on beds, into the water

of cleansing bowls in mosques,

the spired air of churches, 

the arks of the Torah, the tiered

tower of Pagodas, wept

that sunny day and the sunless

to come, into the encompassing 

night, the faces in vigils, candlelit.