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.
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.
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
and so did the moon.
And the child was named after a constellation.
a pretty word that meant “Spine of Universe.”