I am my own Nude. -Anne Carson

Voluptuosity? Go down.
Cascades, cataracts: fat in a bra,
globes of honey tickled into
some palm, but only Anubis,

lover and coroner, sees the yellow drupes
of cells stacked inside, parts the lips
of the Y-incision most tenderly.
The living see only the juicy

dive, meetly and sweetly, between
strong marked-up thighs. What moving
finger writ these runes? White calves
bellow at night. Painted hide,

and the brown hands of a wicked, wicked witch
on a strapping white ass. All poses are coy.