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Love made, you twist your flesh into a portrait
of the women men used to objectify.

You are fecundity, The Empress, harvest;
bearer of new life, symbol of lost desires.

You are the secret wish of so many – yet
are blind, still, to the bounty of your body.

Behind you, a bright rectangle of morning;
sky bluer than any sea you could long for.

Were I a painter, this is how I’d frame you:
the corals in your skin on the egg-white clouds.

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