when you humble yourself on snakebites and in inns,
think on the cosmos that turns a flower’s face.
don’t wonder Enki’s emptiness, his infinity,
nor wander lost in another’s memory.
you’re here a stone and stale bread, a promise, a path, a hope.
the taste of love is in your hands;
tears now are sweet and unsalt.
 
In Ereshkigal’s halls which are whiter than fangs,
Unsavaged Enkidu stretches out his arms
They are                                             Wreathed in waiting,
With                                                    Hands blacker than heart.
 
He says, “You’re going to be amazing.”
 
a story bites you like snakefangs;
it pulls you in the cold of the immortal sea,
and what you bring back with your lungs against a surface—
that thing grows so deep beyond the reach of words.