She who has eyes to see, let her see
the shape of God
settled in the crook of a tree
a clean fish bone
a pomegranate lifted to lips
the pelvis of a woman
She turns vertical a sunflower seed,
the eye of Horus-
a bold ichthys-
and sees a Venn Diagram of an upturned bowl of stars
layer upon layer
of the Milky Way
folded
into a single Abrahamic seed.
She slides it in her mouth
and chews the woody pulp
contemplating the double helix
of herself,
pausing in the chiasmus of ritual motherhood,
Her body here – bending to fold, to pick, to comfort, to clean
Her mind with Him, rising
She climbs Jacob’s ladder
and descends again,
a golden mean,
spiraling to find her center point
where Heaven meets earth
earth meets Heaven.
She is the pattern.
She is sacred geometry.
She is Vetruvian woman—
hips sloped to one side
from the weight of carrying her son.
She raises her available arm
to the kitchen cupola where God rests
on penitent prayers and pleadings,
a tired angel ascending,
silence weighs her ankle bones,
her lips breathe the four winds
God’s shape sleeps
in the crook of her arm,
a circle within a square.
