How can there be math in her body,
when gazelles live in her neck
And her voice, a papaya
That five-pound fruit which makes all meat tender
With rose-color, sunset, and gold.
From her waist to her hips,
a nightwork of Czech lands
Open meadows, soft as stroking a peach
Thighs with the volume of lips,
then legs, where a Japanese master paints a teacup as though it were a woman.
At last, those tensile trick bones at the top of her feet
Where iguanas balance,
fat and black as plums.