The ridge between my breasts
is not where God resides.
God would need
more breathing room.
More stretch of grass and sand,
snow and ocean. Turtles, even.
What becomes breasts
comes after. Elephants came first.
God would say, this isn’t your only asset.
God would say, I like it when you’re on top.

No, Kuhu. God is not
your lover. A stranger
bearing a river. You
are Krishna crossing
on your father’s shoulders, the night
a storm. Roar-rip
blue. Everything the chest
survives. This isn’t
your only body. Made anew.
God resides.
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