Broad and immaculate
I rest here
with my whole body,
my woman's body
moulded from labour pains,
warm primal clay,
a keeper kiln-fired
in the furnace of my existence.
Behind closed eyes
I see them come and go again
the women, the children,
and the lost
those who would nestle
between my breasts,
drown themselves in my flesh,
or shed their tears
in the bowl of my lap.
Men, boys, young gods
small of hip
or rough-hewn as I am
though hewn from granite
all the same.
Where is the one
who is without sorrow?
This is why I console all those
who seek my consolation.
