He could turn his hand to anything –
as easy with an adze as with
the inlay on a rosewood box.
For him, God grew in the grain
of cedar, nestled in the clench
of the walnut case.
In bed he gentled me like pearwood.
I peeled beneath his hands.
He hollowed me.
So, yes, I knew as certainly
as ever I knew anything
that what I bore was sacred.
No need for lightning-rods or visitation.
I saw it in the jut
of shavings in my lover’s beard,
the laughter of my cousin
as she oiled my skin and brushed
my swollen belly with her hair.