it is women that were meant for beauty,
it is women that were meant for poetry.
you take my form,
mold it,
I am some clay-dust,
founded on dense ash,
my body swelters at your beginning.
you play some god,
I become a woman
at your finger tips,
a space to fill
your blackness.
you become the sun,
pouring me with the
experience of beauty,
- it is I who
will worship your radiance.
you create an altar
around my form,
rose petals, sage, sea shells,
fresh fruit-
you ask me to fulfill you,
you beg questions with answer,
I begin to understand what
G-d must feel like.
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