On Encountering Henry Moore's Sculpture

As soon as I catch a glimpse of Henry Moore's women
in any museum, I am not responsible for my behavior.
You might as well have drugged me at the door.
I want to sidle up to them like a purring cat
rubbing its side against its beloved owner's leg.
I gasp and sigh and stare, not wanting to release my gaze
from the first woman I meet, this mountainous, regal,
reclining beauty. I want to take her home.
She notices me staring. We are introduced.
In the silence we talk. I whisper my devotion in her ear,
compliment her on her earthy shape,
those monolithic mounds. You wouldn't have to coax me.
I'd climb up and fall asleep in the lap
of this primitive-looking broad,
breathing through a hole in her middle
and take her for my mother.