My fabric is forest-fringed
with texture smooth as silkey sand slipping
between long white fingers
and nubby,
knuckled like a fist.
My bones button the cloth
securely into place,
dusky glass revealing darkly
the fulness of my face.
Moon river madness,
red tide through fertile fields
is spilt,
poured out upon the altar.
I am
both altar and offering,
both gift and giver,
barren and burgeoned,
curled,
spiraled in stone,
unfurled as flesh
clothing the bone.

kiva

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