Profiles; Our Bodies Were Universes
Sometimes when I go to the Center, I comb my hair and gloss my lips,
line my eyes in cobalt blue. In a satchel with my oils and candles,
I pack a couple Matchbox cars for the children, some protein bars,
sample sizes of hotel lotions and body wash. I like to bring them tokens.
They like to send me home with deeper things.
Our Bodies Are Universes
There will always be the quiet birthing of foals,
blood and vernix-coated,
and some form of god who prizes newborn mess
and mothers’ fragile needs. There will always be this din
of pot-slamming violence rending the seams
of Sunday mornings, the cries of hungry bellies and empty prayers.
Amidst a cacophony of church chimes and children
thrown out with the holy water, and goddammit woman where's my supper,
don't tell me it's morning again,
there will always be women who want to help
bear poverty's babies, draw them forth from the celestial spheres
at the center of all of us. When did we forget
our wombs were universes, when did we stop
hearing the music of one single bell
against a breeze, one doe slipping out of the hunter’s sights?