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Womb

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It is a blood clot

unknotted, holey socks

thrown out, birds used to

a blue sky unleashed – grounded,

underfoot. A mealworm left

on the kitchen floor. Sibling animals,

connected beyond species recognition, beyond

cultures and ways and voices communicating.

Sugar cane on the tongue,

sucked on as a child –

remembrance of a heritage

destined to remain as stories embellished when told.

Great moon of the planet I escaped from,

I almost made it to you, that far, almost sat in your

crater-circles, gawking at the constellations.

I made it just past the stratosphere.

But you know my body then

was the best it has ever been – gravity had been overcome,

no hollow bones or connections I could barely bear

to stomach. As it is, here, in this form, that body has died,

the soldier in me has died, along

with the guilt-ridden mushy heart

and the resulting fury. The light is perfection

on my back and flowers are here,

some wilted, some emerging.

  

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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