I keep trying to write poetry but I've lost the rhythm I unearthed in adolescence.
Buried. Beneath what: saltwater, asphalt, dead skin? I
filled notebooks with inkstorms and pronounced it good. The small
of my smaller orbit.
All my delusions of deity have crumbled and I lay prostrate at my
own weary feet.
I'm thinking about all of the tears our mothers have shed,
Why pain resides so deeply where it has already found its rawest root. The womb
opens and expels and closes again, a breathing chrysalis,
mutilated into a denser beauty. A
I do not know what the weakness is
that we are not allowed, that
crawls in the marrow of our screams, flays the warm skin of our palms.
and we heal and heal and heal and heal
because when we bleed
our children bleed --
I am trying to get my rhythm back, I am trying to hear everything my mother told me
when I was seventeen
when I was a small god, with an unblemished womb
and no pain