Julianne Jones

Fog settles in my lungs, the night soft
and rounded, wet. In the breath
of wrinkled sheets, oaks will vanish.
Roots unfurl like legs, and trees walk away.
The damp rubs its gloved hands over
my eyes as I cradle my skull.

Should not lick your lips.
Should not burn you like sage.

Dusk blossoms around us. The sky tears
at the seams and the light of constellations
rains over you. You become Aquarius, water
moving through me.

Should rest in pigeon pose.
Should open my ribs into a half-crescent moon.

When your breath falls steady, I slip through
the walls and buzz all night, shake my heart open.
You once told me Bhrahmari breath clears the chakras.
I stay awake with the moon, a queen bee buzzing.
All night I stay up and read sparkling tea leaves,
looking for signs of what I should not do.