Unclear beginnings and ends
mark the transitions between dusks and dawns
where moonlight christens the morning air,
sky black as my coffee grounds
and echoes of "twinkle twinkle little star"
from last night's rocking chair
are made visual up above.
The world is so high.
This boy on my breast
mouth open belly fed
sucks as he sleeps
his bald head a moon too
emerged from my body
which has been the entirety of his nourishment
for six months straight.
I don't give a shit if this doesn't strike you miraculous
just because it's done by womyn
everywhereeveryday. Frequency doesn't eclipse magic.
Don't tell me I have no power outside
your roles, expectations, institutions and scripts.
I make and sustain life
LIFE
with this flesh. It's all here--
power, tender
and shared.
I am
feeding the whole world
through this one. This one.
This one thing
they cannot commodify
because it is not theirs. It is mine. It is his.
Within and between us.
His hunger my thirst.
My bursting his quench.
There is no money that can quantify in value
this process of transmission
which is why mother's are the poorest rich people
reproducing this Earth.
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