She will show you the
indigo of her inclined throat
the snake in her hair-coil                               one
that will hiss at cusses in the alley
standing under the light, a twisted              nine
she will show her lotus palms,
nails of orphaned nights.
 
Shiva, she will balance the                              moon
crescenting on her head
on shoulders, on knees of blemish
before she sits                                                     down
on summer-driven bricks.
 
She will pat her animal skin
the blued forehead dreaming a                        boon
she will look, three-eyed --
the sleepy ones closed and
the mouth open, singing a hunger                   chant.