I won’t go into all the work you’ve done:
the leaking
the beginnings you’ve carried
the dilating into a ready body
with an opera-like mouth pink and wide,
but they won’t let you speak
‘less in boom-pat soft-cry to survive
‘less in tunnel moan
or plea scream.
In the South,
every womb is a swamp and a sword fight
with no rights to what goes in or how it comes out.
You gotta be loud
and ready
to be interrupted.
You gotta be an unruly mob,
as if that is the worst of all the names you’ve ever been called.
Never anything anyone wants
but always taken from.
I won’t go into the sacrifice:
the forgotten worship and stolen pearl.
how you had to drown a man alive.
how you had to bend a hanger once.
how you almost bled forever.
I won’t go into all you’ve had to endure;
more interested in how your river runs clean
and your dark rain groom.
how your reverence comes out slippery;
the way you get wet with repair.
how you grieve deep and become your own prisoner,
then flower bomb into art factor.
how you’ve always been an exhibit of:
how to swell,
how to swallow,
and how to properly
wear a crown.