[Maya is the mother of Buddha.]

In suckling, the breast
Cleaves open and there seated, silence like
A spider infinite marching.
I think of Maya’s womb, long with men
Like sand. When asked how she
Retains her shape
Says Maya: the world
Ends in two directions—
Maya with her corridor
Of womb. I looked at my
Breast and wondered, seeing:
Eyeball, mouth. Maya’s smile
Cleaved and I shaped me still
Feel your form wresting comfort
In that interval which like
The ocean of scripture
Accommodates—my one like Maya’s
Infinity. Even the goddess needed
A lawn chair. Your march
In me is dancing.