to love a woman
is to acquire new limbs, new
organs, a constant state
of inventing myself until
my soulmate’s bring their
tragedy
and leave me many-headed;
quadruple-armed
call me, kali, stupid to have
all these heads with no
woman to gaze at with these eyes
with no thighs
to grip with these hands

a mistletoe hangs between her
legs, a curious invitation but
one kiss leaves me amputated
human-formed again,
two hands, one head,
it’s hers now, though