Having birthed, my womb is still / full of creatures. My first son / names them and names them, and calls / forth another with each new naming.
how your cerulean skin slides / across the eye, refreshes like the lid / tripped by light, sweat, wind, sex, / / or a speck of mythology settled / in the corneal bed
No ginger virgin, hands modest to sex and breast, / flesh fallow, fecund as sky gone to seed in the sea . . .