It pushes her out
of an unintended hidden heart.
She isn’t ready.
She doesn’t disembark
like a sun-bound flesh shuttle.
She swims upstream,
back toward the cervix,
stripped of gills,
soft belly bloody, still docked,
still connected to the uterus.
Nobody asks how beautiful she is.
The nurses in particular hate
She won’t be particularly interested
in the 16th century,
but the hospital staff use leeches anyway.
No doctor is able to understand
the value of her tiny rivers,
or the way her eyes and lips curve
opposite but say the same thing.
No surgeon can read
the life line of her open veins,
despite the efforts
of her modesty.
there is a story about this painting and this poem:
my dear artist/writer/soulsister Julie M. Tate (authoress @ Gossip [&] The Devil) and i had a little chat on fb. we discussed about words and the meaning of words. she said that i do meraki (greek: doing something with soul, creativity, or love — when you put “something of yourself” into what you’re doing, whatever it may be) and because of that i had the idea to paint something. and so i started painting, just out of the blue…or black.
the name of the painting is MERAKI. i posted it on facebookand when Julie saw it, she did her own way of meraki and bled this poem to the paper.
i love it when magic happens