He seeks her in the crevices under the arms –
smell of fish, the river bed, weeds that dance in the water;
she ferries him across the Ganga, dreams in her eyes
like the distant moon, blue in a honeyed night.
In the velvety darkness through speeding currents
in the folds of her misted skin he inhales
the smell of worms and algae that swim
in the depths of her eyes; as the pool of passion
surges and stirs, he ingests fragrance of the musk
under her breasts that roll down the waist like heads of
sleepy children. She is no longer a secret he carries
in his loins, she has spilled into kingdoms far and in history.
(Out of this union Satyavati gave birth to Vyasa, the master story teller of the great Indian story)