I.

My children come out of the sand

and from behind the part of the sun you can’t look directly into.

they are hiding in the shadiest divot

of some island unlisted.

not to say they emerge from dark, but they are wrapped in their mother’s velvet.

I am too warm to stay awake in, but they aren’t sleeping because of my fabrics.

My fear sits on their heads like Gold wreaths and slowly quiets the idea of them.

DANGER written by tiny hands all over the inside of my body

I am “Mama” but  I am Phobic….I am “wife”

life giving and loyal

I am “Mama” but I AM not ready and don’t ask me when

bend, my children under the idea that I can have you somehow without being pregnant

do as the goddesses do and labor yourselves out of my head.

crawl up my throat while i am sleeping and coo me awake

beautiful unborns, let me cry into the earth, and you can grow in patches

they can’t hear me though.

they sleep.

———

II.

My body will have your children even if you don’t love me

Even if I don’t love you

My uterus will cut us out together like paper dolls

Though we only wanted a paper thin spin

around pad, poem, and pen

We spilled life onto the earth

And now look at all these little philosophies running around

With their shaky legs and thick hair, brown fingers

Full lipped and frantic

The only things that matter.

you don’t matter, but we can be cordial.

practical. Give me, give me, give me, give me, give us…but me first.

I’m sorry.

—

III.

there was moon, there was grass, and he was scared out of his mind.

she was naked and the water fogged up.

when she pushed,  the woods were still as if in prayer,

reeds bowed their heads towards Mecca

birds fell to a hush to make way for her birthing song, scream, song, growl

it hurt.

he stayed

and so did the moon.

And the child was named after a constellation.

a pretty word that meant “Spine of Universe.”