Tayve Neese

Saraswati, for my mouth,

your quatrain of palms,
lifelines the rivers anointing
the plain of my brow.
My skin holds no current,
repels the plumage of your swan.

The desert of my tongue
in need of a honey-shaped star
dissolving over eons.
Your water, wearing down flesh,
is numbed with silt for only its sound.