You are my opus of poetry.
I wish I was a woman.
Nine months of poetry I would write to last your lifetime.
I’d cook and feed myself with my own hands blowing a prayer over each meal.
I’d read every book of prose, love and of God I could find.
I’d worship, fallen in prostration, yet dancing in elation, weeping for everything inside me to transfer to you.
From milk I would give you for as long as you suckle,
To stare at you in forty years and say,
He is, she is,
My opus of poetry.