Her Body Becomes the World
she’s branching,
each shoot a seed
birthing arabesques.
her flesh is her paint,
and she draws a mandala
florid and noble,
a kaleidoscopic eye
whose triangles are thorns
and ziggurats and yonis.
she’s been this way
ever since time
circled and clasped itself,
forming a web.
future raveled around past,
she’s unlikely to leave
the garden of her wounds,
or the blossoms
swarming her seams.
she watches
as they procreate and riot,
sustaining her spidery heart,
her uplifted wings.
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