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HISTORY |
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I will never know what it’s like to open my legs and receive him to receive history rampant, weedy spear inside my body. To let him into the world so that his sap flows out to the last branches of the elms, the leaf tips, or the more common form, to open while clutching shut, half-open, or afraid of a gun, or needing food, or with a fist rising to open to the one who murdered my husband, the conqueror triumphant in my cunt to open at the command of law, of armies, of racks prying my legs apart and his furious seed dripping from me his juniper seed, his boastful murderous seed spilling from me, and growing in me, inexorable light and birdsong pouring through the window. I will never know what it’s like to open my legs and give birth to history. My child, his story. I will only know what it’s like to be that child of sorrow. |
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Originally published in Beloit Poetry Journal.
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