Numbers 18: In Writing

Where you go,  I follow
Where you are,  I am 

When you drift,  I support
Your supine body 

through wandering waves
and bear your dreams in the dark

Mine the rising smoke
mine the  bitter-tang
of first bite

Mine the milk squirt
the tannened wine
the waxy gold
of plucked honey
with its sting

Given and taken
Tangled on your hair
I open your womb
and root myself
in you