Jeremiah 51/In prepapartion for 17 of Tammuz

Words are supposed to fall from your tongue like water
in the time of a drought, and would it be enough if I covered you in my kisses,
my lips licking the skin beneath your elbow, cliches forgotten between our thighs?

I have no more poetry to offer, only the crevices of my body,
and a bit of leftover eye-makeup.

Afterwards, I'll feed you cheese, and pretend to sip your coffee,
as we both ponder the inability of this closeness to stitch together
the holes in forgotten places:

They lie beyond language, beyond words, beyond tongues and kisses,
unreachable, like the Divine Presence that left the Temple,
that kissed the Babylonians with swords.

Jeremiah kissed the scroll of revenge before sending it off,
to be sunk by a rock in the river, but Song of Songs tells us
that love cannot be quenched by water, or soothed by fire.

I have stopped praying not to be consumed - instead,
I pray to feel the power of each flame, the bitterness of these ashes
 that line the ravaged temple of your bed - a floating boat in need of new sheets.

What will she look like, the one you trade me in for?

I already picture you kissing her by the door, in a way you do not kiss me.
 I already picture our nights apart - but this month is all about separation,
between God and nation, the two lovers who could not love -
God, that sounds like the title of some corny movie,
but Oscar Wilde always said that life immitates art.

Maybe he was right, this man for whom words fell like a flood,
and he learned how to let them consume him.