The ridge between my breasts is not where God resides. God would need more breathing room. More stretch of grass and sand, snow and ocean. Turtles, even. What becomes breasts comes after. Elephants came first. God would say, this isn’t your only asset. God would say, I like it when you’re on top. No, Kuhu. God is not your lover. A stranger bearing a river. You are Krishna crossing on your father’s shoulders, the night a storm. Roar-rip blue. Everything the chest survives. This isn’t your only body. Made anew. God resides.