Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Veronica Rose

The idea of birth,
cracking pain,
pulsing rivers of blood
and widening vessels
gushing streams are
rushing out of me,
out of my tiny,
sacred cave
Doesn't scare me.

Whether she'll be seen
or heard
or even acknowledged
with a nod
is what distresses
Not dresses
or tresses
but how she'll be addressed
causes me

And whether my maternal instint
will be instinctive enough
to keep her, shape her,
sharpen her
keeps me
up at night

I worry that her father's height
won't carry far
because her mother's brown skin
will communicate
an indigenous freight
about some untrue inferiority
that she'll start to believe

I worry that her half-ness
will split her into pieces
and drown in weakness
forcing her to spend her
time needling her fingers,
to sew herself back together
when she was never broke
to begin with

The idea of her is miraculous,
a flickering light yet to be;
but what the world may do to her,
may convince her,
terrorizes me.

1 comment:

  1. classyclaire1:40 AM

    love it...only certain people could successfully name their potential children veronica and not sound snooty- you are one of them. Please, please, please can we have another wild womyn's poetry night before you move to the cold northern yonder...


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