And in the chalice of the hips her belly
lay, like some young fruit a child might hold.
And in its navel's little crater-cup
was all the darkness that this life would hold.
Down underneath, a small, light wave was rising,
which lapped constantly on toward the loins,
where now and then there broke a silent ripple.
Translucent though, and still untouched by shadow —
like a stand of birch in April — warm,
and empty and unhidden lay her sex.