Were I to paint
A self-portrait,
There you all would be.
Beneath my face, another
All you nesting dolls
Heaped beneath the sheath.
Seventy fingers entwined
Resting on my manifold thighs
Pointing all directions
Mostly behind.
A pillow breast so large
For all I stashed away and saved
A withered tag slouched
By my arm
For all the whiles I gave.
My body curves
In all directions,
Because muscle remembers
The body’s infections.
Moon Bodies 