Just as water will flow through
a well-worn riverbed, even beyond and after death,
I go to that place of memory between our legs, holding
the sacred vessel with my lips, a holy mass we recite by rubbing,
by binding, by applying our Tantric perfumes
to the wound and by eating the unfolding body baked with sago,
the astral body weaving in and out of one another, grooves of mind deepening
and scattering, the way stolen jewels are left unclaimed on the ocean floor