She slips out of her dress, turns
this way and that, cursing her breasts,
her stomach, her thick thighs.
Her eyes are crushed geraniums, her mouth
a study in sorrow. Hollow girl, full
of echoes. She pushes her food
around her plate, only pretends
to put the spoon to her lips. How
do I tell her that Man’s desire is hunger,
and we are built for famine. I know
she is trying to disappear, to transmute
herself into light. Air. But the girl
is my stock. And her flesh,
that tightly woven basket,
is built to carry the weight
of every harvest moon.