Granite Weaving, 1988, by Jesús Moroles
“He” grates across the throat, the “h” a dry abrasion on the tongue —
Across the throat, the “h” in “she” is tucked behind the folded muscle.
In “she” is tucked the “e” the lips unpurse to say, same as saying “we.”
My lips unpurse to say the names of God, of Love, and they are “She.”
The names of God, of Love are, too, old explosions coded into granite.
Too, old explosions cooled to stone warm to the touch of light, as she,
Stone-warmed and glowing, let my lips brush velvet shadows onto hers.
Let my lips brush the story soft, forget that “he” was scrape and struggle.
The story soft forgets that “he” was heavy, wrestled into “we,” and weaving
“He” heavy, wrestled (strands of granite yarned like fabric) into “we,”
Strands of granite halt their dry abrasion, interlock, and become “She.”