PesaThese days, people think
I am a mother. Feeling humble, my body ponders tiny heartbeats of strength, loud enough to create fingernails and war criminals. Slim hips And wanderlust Bear my empty womb. An oblation of migration: Rootstocks produce no buds, only suckers meant for plucking. No map marks my torso with a journey of temperance and martyrdom. A seat with saints accepts anonymity in an Aspen grove. These days, I do not deserve their sense of gratitude. My lips lack translucence, sticking truth in a corner. To pay homage, I should scream: My body never held the shape of earth in its hands. |