They tell me my cervix
has a remarkable gift for me,
that it's turned into a bag of old women
who still cover their bodies in sweet odours
and, one by one, count their early beauty
and courage
until bored.
I'm asked
that if everything my heart desired
were fulfilled, would I need
a clean womb, the longest
brown hair, cheeks rosey with jokes.
Would I still run against God, put down
a foot on my own sweat,
look steeply down on the earth
which wears my name
without trouble
as if death
were a birth mark, pulling
my stockings to its nose, commenting
on my white calves, my mother's shadow
which is hushed,
they tell me,
in twenty-four months.
Maybe more.
Maybe less.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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your originality is as startling as your revelation. I've missed you and hope to hear back from you about a bio so I can add your poems.
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I have missed your poetry and originality.The twenty four month gestation period as opposed to nine is I assume an elephantine reference,maybe more maybe less,time is but a perception and when the heart is halved and carved by shadow's then time no longer becomes a measurement,within my opinion, but a weight...
Please forgive my ramblings that do not do you justice, am so tired, am unwell and even more aware that am inept.
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Your beautiful comments are always welcome, no matter how tired you might be
I hope you feel better soon.
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