The Mud

the mud forms its mouth
into a platoon of puckered lips
and sucks away my death
from the bottom of my feet.
In the crevice of my ankles,
it reclines, purring –
I have domesticated it.
It creeps up my calves,
my knees,
its belly is my skirt.

It wraps its arms around my hips,
lays its cheek against my stomach
as a child does;
hands on my back,
as a spell.
Its fingers invite my hair
to live in my neck.
I bend, it knights me,
touching my shoulders,
blessing me.
I rest my chin on its breastbone