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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?

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