Womb
I have this monster to thank
for letting me gestate it
over years of regarding myself
in the mirror,
alive long before I had my child—
claws for eyes
to catch on flaps of my post-birth skin.
It made me pull at my hide
stretch it out
for all to see
don it over my head, like a heavy blanket
before anyone could unwelcome
my change
I was deaf
to unkind words.
Deliverance
Men in masks plant
bullets into their heads—
someone’s son, someone’s daughter—
mask their faces with layers of tape
and a note that names crimes alleged.
Bodies are retrieved from streets and dark alleys.
The parents find a familiar mark.
Criminals are named and buried.
I cannot devour you, my child,
not like the wild dams do.
If only a lake were a womb
I could entrust you to its waters.
You would swim among gentle reeds;
choose the time of your emergence.
What We Tell Our Girls
Tell her of the gap
between her teeth
and she will smile less.
Call her natural cavity
empty
and she will think herself
hungry;
she will seek herself full
have her fill
bear the child that she must
she must have.
Finally, tell her of her cracks
as if she were a jar of clay
number the jagged lines
traveling up her belly.
Once more
she will believe herself
broken.
A Stranger
I could no longer tell
dream from day
a snake molts
a chick sheds its fluff
the white of a nail
breaks off
the child is out of my body
it cries as I hold it
to breasts dry of milk
and when Mother takes it
it ceases wailing
in passing, I watch
for I must go about my day
what of that job I lost?
or that call I have to make?