An indigo line from extruded navel to pubis,

a narrow neat bruise or a compass line tattoo.

Beneath it, abdominal muscles asunder, uncleaved

like cheeks of a gravid peach. Above it, livid

straie of a sun-dried gourd-skin, verandahed

by mooning breasts bearing tracery of river deltas.

Stigmata of female crucifixion, sacrificing time

and spontaneity under the aegis of oestrogen,

women wear them variously — proud, afraid,

dumb-struck. In hospital catacombs we absorb

a kabala coded in chromosomes, a whispered initiation.

We dismiss it as so much clishmaclaver

until we step in the river, slipping

on slime, losing our footing, centre of gravity

gone. There is danger in the river of blood,

the moment from placenta to brain,

the tunnel of light. We fear the karma

of lost brothers or sisters. We are terrified

by our heresy. We are ecstatic apostles.

We have faith in the creed

of love and other women.