What do you write of motherhood?
The stretching of skin and belief.
Rigor mortis of a woman’s dreams some would have you believe.
Purpose, others insist.
When you are an artist and a mother there is vague distinction
between your work
of knitting images and line and color
and knitting bones.
When a womans armature begins to dissolve,
leeched of calcium and
that very
last
fuck,
they form a sort of catacomb,
an empty beehive
waiting for a queen
to fill with food or
medicine or
kin.
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Father’s carry a name
Mothers carry generations
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A rose by anyother name
It gives life AND can kill
Septic from Sapphic
the rot that is coming
from inside the house
Then there is the lotus
gently releasing
with it’s tether steadfast
aerial and root
plucked together from that bloodmeal
Encaul,
the cou de gra,
baby AND the bath water
washed ashore
a submarine of cells and fluid