by Kathryn Kirkpatrick
Of course light unfurls from her body,
and the moon glows gold in the distance.
But why does her face float alone in its wings
of turquoise and umber and labia mauve?
No apple breasts. No belly. Nothing of what
we know of her luscious thighs.
Instead we are given the brain, its veined
complications. A serene expression, slightly sad.
Passion has burnished her just beyond heartbreak.
Who are the two in the breast of the dove?
When she opens the spiral of her third eye,
she is not entirely alone.
Neither is she wholly accompanied.