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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 21, 2018

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Submitted: July 21, 2018



that pink pit that resides in your stomach turns with the tide of the moon and then flows that blood that comes washing the same blood your body grew in,


a maternal continuity.


a sea in your mother, the one you festered and feasted in, suspended by generations behind her back. 


a sacrifice of body, blood spilled on an altar of a table. the bread attached by chord to her hallowed form. that wine you drank by her own gullet. the first breath comes from her own throat.


a loop of body formed body.


hips you wear that will break, in creation, care, and cold. they will crack and they will hurt and they will make something completely new.


a hearth fueled with fever. the heat must remain it is what warms the body and supports life. you cannot take from women what we already own, what we already made.


we will not be shamed, shunned, shut.


our bodies remain not unnatural but entirely heavenly. from cheekbones to hipbones to thighs there lies the structure mended by god and stars, bent and broken and healed and replenished a thousand times over. we stand not as temptation nor will we kneel to ungrateful fruit but to learn to forgive to love to recycle everything our mothers have sacrificed, we stand to fight to cry to scream and to die


all in that same blood we shared


there in our mother.

© Copyright 2018 Elise Niehaus. All rights reserved.

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