I could not have sculpted such an image
with my hands
but my womb
she has molded your reflection as clay
standing beside me, before the water
bic in your hand
bic in my hand
and I show you how to lather the down
of your man’s face.
I take the first swath
remembering the razor of your birth,
the waves of creation
I rode, speaking your name,
breathing life into your lungs
as I lay upon the great feathered back
of a seabird violently come to shore.