Woman

I measured it: four hip-clicks 
from the bed to the stance 
of a deity. The moon 
behind the head is a dome 
fed on history. 

A conversation in tongues, 
of elements of the body, 
roots through heaven 
like a search and rescue. 

A long neck (but not so long 
that it’s absurd; just enough 
to hold the possibility 
of life) oversees the stars. 

Two limbs double 
like colleagues in tandem. 
Heat generates a path, 
the scent of pheromones, 
and something else. 

A single word 
holds the body through years 
of devotion, whispered 
in secret, 
like release.