When first conceived, she attached to the lush flora of her mother’s womb
and the two cells she was divided and multiplied in an arithmetic wonder
From buds her fingers blossomed, and feet sprouted toes to tread the waters
in which she bobbed, tethered by a rope that delivered three squares a day
and then some.
She was not the first occupant of this inland sea; a sister who grew awry swam
there before and died when born, leaving the womb empty of all but the salt
of Mother’s tears.
Did the sharp tang on the waves of grief flavor her own growing so she emerged
a quiet survivor, every breath measured, each milestone a triumph in a story
not her own?
Or was this the way things were meant to be, with one the herald preparing
the place for the fully-formed-other who would devote her life to the narrative
of ebb and flow?
© Dana Hughes 12.14.21
Girl…..or rather WOMAN. So raw. So powerfully female. Love.
thank you for your kind words!