Grace Cathedral,
San Francisco July 1990

I. Sweet Water
Shane, you told me how you carved from wood,
eight statues of great mothers— scavenged lumber,
hauled logs in the yellow truck we leaned against.

Imagining their figures in a church, arranged around
an oval rock. Asking for names, you said, I knew
them already, urging me to tell what they looked like,

what shapes their bodies took.

II. Willendorf
A little circle cap covers your round wood head,
surrounds your face with four descending rows of
close cropped corn— fifth at the summit, our knob,
your lens.

Immense shoulders slope, ripple presenting a deep
dark dimple— just off center above your breasts.
Eggs are corpulent, uneven— your right one hangs

Like many mothers’ nursing low— full above the heart.
The navel bulges in amid placid flesh, bounty of bulk extends poised upon the fragile tender balance—

Your humble folds, the vulva— crowning plump curved thighs, depressions in the knees. How your humble
sacred stance is carved stable within our bones.

No longer pregnant—yet full ready to give. You are the offering— hold, nurture. The body—our terror— narrow passage leading to life and death.

The body— our solace— takes us, mother— a blind and inward glance.

III. Sumeria
Small breasts upheld like twin cups in a cradle by mute slender hands. The power of seed curves— a delicate afterthought from your swollen shoulders.

Tiny streams of milk lead the way invisibly—to symmetry. The fat upon your thighs accumulates— soft plausible outcome of fertility. A single layer of flax hides your hair—

Crowns a mild forehead. Blank crescent eyes and lips perpetuate benevolence— your moisture wrung from
a stone. Captured tears, amulets wind in vees around

Your neck, hips, knees. Waist, belly remain slight, unveiled. What you balance on tight rigid calves,
sustains us, juice—welcome as a double pear.

IV. Laussel
Out of the cave, without benefit of light or facial features, from the low depths of the body, you rise from the wall—right hand embracing a bison horn incised thirteen times,

Moon wax, left hand resting on a full ripe belly. Two wrinkles curve, deepen plenty through shoulders, midriff. An animal has fed you well. Expectant crevices beneath

Your breasts breathe, smile. In a thick, heavy slumber—
we creatures wait here.

V. Nile
Arms coil, pray like wings, beseech healing rain—fall
upon your little snake head. Your breasts birds wet with praise— all that is new on the river—your flat torso,

Supple banks— love floods our delta.

VI. Lespugue
Ivory breasts, buttocks, thighs repeat themselves—gifts that spirits leave us must be returned.Your small head bows in concentration, snake limbs press down

The sagging chest over the sad and vacant region of loss. With simple feet tucked in, you push to bring the zone of eggs to life before the rest.

VII. Thrace
Seated on a round clay stool, you fold modest hands over your lap, our throne. The slight nipples coil close to center, guard our dreams like shells protect the snails.

Supplicant, you lift your face— hook for the sun. Radiant straight hair flows down your back to where bold lozenges surround a sacred cleft. In front, meanders dip, rise, and

Cross pain-soft secrets. In ample balance, here your hips yield, whisper— how staunch the ground beneath columns of your little hoofed feet.

VIII. Yoruba
Your oval face is all we know— your dark body harbored still within the tree— sacred as sap. Three wrinkles tilt across your brow, tributaries of regret. Black lakes,

Your eyes, our mirrors, glisten damp with heat. Opulence of breath swirls from a long flat nose onto broad moist lips. Sultry shadows in your mouth, honey on our barren path.

IX. Cyclades
Your nude body stiff— white as our spirit death. In life, we clutch your blind face as our shield. We grasp your nose, our handle, and climb steep, out of breath as any alpine

Ridge. Your neck, a cylinder of desiccation, lets us pour marble hate upon your breasts, lethal piles of sand, each an hour glass.

Straight and parallel, arms of resignation enfold as we carve on you the triangle of our doom. Schematic legs
no longer hold you on earth to fetch us with your song.