My lover says I have Fibonacci hips.
For those who do not know
The Fibonacci sequence is the pattern of numbers
That programmes the beauty of Nature.

The curve of the wave,
The sweep of the Nautilus shell,
The spiral tendril of the fern uncurling.

My lover says I have Fibonacci hips,
In firelight, as I curve into him.
The sweep of his touch
Tracing the line of beauty.

From head to toe he finds the magic line.
In the rise of the bone
That only shows
When, eyes half-closed,
I look at him
As he comes into me.
Body and brow arching in perfect synchrony.

The magic numbers run through my body
Bone to breast to calf,
Even in the falling cadence of my laughter.
You are all curves, he says, all curves.
As he delights in the bounty of my nature.

And in his man-ness I see it too.
In the full sweep of his lower lip
Soft and swelling and promising kisses.
In the lines that form
When he laughs.
In the Yin and Yang of his body
As he lies
Face down,
Smiling, replete,
Making me laugh.
Singing me to sleep
As dawn rises.

As light creeps in I wonder
If time too runs to the Fibonacci sequence.
Lifting us up on the crest of its wave
Then, as the curve falls, crashing us onto its rocks.

No matter, whatever else may come,
At this one point,
This co-ordinate,
This place in time where we meet in its blinding arc
We are beautiful.
Each to the other,
I to him
And he,
To me.

Touched by magic numbers
We are all curves, all curves.