Breast ​

It was in some obscure motel room, cheap, and I was young. But there it
was, luminous orb falling from my mother’s bra as she changed clothes in
close quarters. I had no memory of infant days—swell of milk, suckle of
nipple—no glimpse of the days yet to come. All I knew, in one moment,
was how it begins: the shape of loss, its sweet curve.

The Second Coming

The old-timer—two missing front teeth—leans into the field, whistles
loudly for his horse, calling his name Jesus! Jesus! over and over till the
aging stallion appears, trots toward the red apple in his hand. All these
years—wild prayers to a hidden god—and this simple secret of ripe fruit,
its scent, calling.

Eros Finds A Way

Centuries ago, Muslims came to Hindu India. Suspicious of sexuality,
they divided mind from body, the sensual from the metaphysical.
Somehow, the long Indian tradition of Eros was not disturbed. Inspired
by the Kamasutra, Muslim weavers shed their heavy black burkas,
created delicate fabrics of translucent magenta, pale pink. Lovers would
step into baft hawa, woven air; ab-e-rawan, running water; shabnam, 
​evening dewThe weavers, secret mystics clothing this body with light.