The anatomist Mateo Renaldo Colombo . . .
claimed to have discovered [the clitoris]. . . .
It had been known earlier to women.
Rain at the end of the month and the trees
unbudded against new grass—black
bough, wet green—thin sheen
slicking cobbles in the street, each stone’s
sunk face brimming: damp handful of
sand scooped up where the shore’s
neither sea nor land, or the slight
soft heft of your breast
weighting my palm. Tender the sheer
milk of your skin, blue river of vein
in memory’s dim room. What color
is water where you are, Virginia,
what sky closes over your head? When I
look close I can see the balled nubs
beginning to stud the bare ends
and I know sap quickens, swells the folds
dusky red, aureole, April
on her way. How’d you do it?
your sister asked. I wish I’d heard you
say With our tongues, slow circles coaxing
hidden things: blind fingertip of
clit unhooded, tidal pull of
parted lips, the salt spring
welling without the willow wand