Published in The Pigeon Parade Quarterly: Migrant
I rarely think about my uterus, but I feel her. I touch my low torso, absently. I contract and expand. When I was young, I cried over the "before." That blank space where I know history happened, But I hadn't yet. Now I know the truth That I was already here when my mom was born. And there were thousands of me. Before that, we were Carol. And before that we were Rose. The four pose for one photo. I know the wisdom of nesting dolls. The first opens herself to reveal another, And on and on. There was never a "before." And "after" begets not oblivion, Just change. So when this body dies Don't seal me in a box. Let my womb become wild lettuce. And let the lettuce become a rabbit And let the rabbit become a dog With bright blue eyes and thick brown hair Who will cross paths with my granddaughter, Who will shake its tail at my great granddaughter, Who will lock eyes with my daughter And remind us of the secret: We are all one.