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.