seven hundred islands

Originally published April 2020 in the Poetry in a Time of Virus 

​I come from a long line of aching 
throats
stained glass words
shattered and swallowed
heartache that strips you bare
Mouth                open                       wide 
As the full-figured moon

These long fingers
They are from mare-riders
pill poppers              birth-workers          soil sifters                joy seekers               
women whose dreams were 
too big
for their time
We tried to show them to the men we loved
And they kept them 
In sweaty palms. Let them spill out through the creases of their tightly closed fists 
we tucked our pain into our ovaries
gave a small dose to each little ovum
hoping to spread it out over generations
Collective amnesia

i come from a long line of
babies who nurse until your breasts bleed
and who cry 
all
night
Great Goddesses
who will only be appeased by the humbling of a man
who cradles infant in warm brown hands
takes the hairy knuckles that might have shattered jaws
Or dreams, or dignity
and instead
caress
a baby's crooning lips
cooing along with Sun Ra

Another day I will tell the story of our resilience
another day, we will celebrate
the ways from no way
The light hearts on the scales of Ma’at
the chapped lips coated in honey by Osun
but tonight I will tell you that she died several times over
and planted one small suffering in the egg who became my mother
who planted one small suffering in the egg who became me
who planted one small suffering in the eggs who became my daughters
three
​
My mother taught me
There is an ache 
For every island