Our body is a temporary membrane, necessary to hold our waters.
Our body is a body of water that breathes in and out as a watery lung.
Liquid environment in, altered water out.
We consume water from leaf bodies, from root bodies, from animal bodies, from fruit, egg, seed, milk, fungi bodies and from groundwater bodies.
We give water back as thin layers of sweat spread across our skin, concentrated in places like
under the arms, under breasts, behind knees, between legs, across the brow, along the spine.
We breathe water from the wet caverns our our mouth and nose, from the spongy cave of our lungs.
We leak water from between our legs to show excitement and ecstasy before love, during love, after love; dewdrops, streams, oceans.
Our blood water blushes red as it passes by the alveoli of the lungs, rushes to a purple-blue in the capillaries before it rivers up against the thin skin of wrists, eyelids, the backs of knees, throats.
Water wells up against the water-orbs of our eyes with joy or with pain or at that inarticulate
moment of emotion.
Water cradles our organs as interstitial fluid in the translucent pockets around the lungs, the heart, below the diaphragm.
Water filters in the kidneys, through the loops of henle and glomerulus, flows in and across membranes, down tubes to swell in the bladder before one descent of many through this particular body to join another body of water.
Our body moves like water as the arching waves of the tongue, as peristalsis down the esophagus, as the twisting of the stomach, as the smooth-muscle glide through the intestines.
Our body moves like water in the rotating of sockets, the twist of spines, curve of bellies, roundness of skulls, fluid traced in air by motion.
Our body senses with water through lake-orb eyes, through water-spiral cochleas, through hot-film saliva, through neuronal cytoplasm.
Our body once knew the fluid press of seas against our ever-moist skin.
Our body gushes at the wetness of water on the shore.
Our minds gush at the memory.