Image courtesy of Geraint Rowland. Shared via a Creative Commons license.
I have birthed the universe.
—I’ve got stars between my thighs.
Only the ancients know my name.
—My hips sway to the tides.
My voice makes lovers lilt and,
—nine moons later, lullabies are sung .
My skin is the sacred shrine—
—made for the priest, the king, and the queen.
They polish my copper tones,
—never speaking my name louder than a whisper.