We, women, grew hungry, ate
from a pile of unassuming, pleasant rocks. They fell
down our throats, slipped into the blankness of our bodies.
We, women, grew hungry, ate
from a pile of unassuming, pleasant rocks. They fell
down our throats, slipped into the blankness of our bodies.
Some of them cut our throats. We wrote most things in life
that were sharp and so we said it was our fault. The rocks
I sucked and swallowed, little still insects I sent
to my body, to heal myself from the stomach outward,
back into the world if I could digest. We dared each other to digest.
I hoped the rocks could venture to my toes, give me the dull ache
of a stance. Maybe the earth has an answer and we don’t ingest it.
I hoped I’d choke up these pebbles one day when I need to hear
my own voice, when I need to remember the weight of being
a woman, of being. We ingested all we could beside a lake
with no name, no cabins dripping off the shore with their loud
wealth and wood. It was five o’clock and dark. No one was watching.
No one was watching us fill ourselves and live.
Once we filled ourselves, we swore we’d live.
