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[SAM TAYLOR]
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HISTORY

 
                                   
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.


 
Originally published in Beloit Poetry Journal.
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  • *
  • Poems
    • from Body of the World >
      • Accident
      • Arc
      • John 3:16
      • Hologram
      • Original Sin
      • Realism: A Landscape of the Body at Any Longitude
      • Coda: For Whom the Bell Tolls
      • (more)
    • from Nude Descending an Empire >
      • The Book of Endings
      • Jataka Tales
      • The Book of Poetry
      • Celebration in Autumn
      • Testimony
      • Madagascar
      • America: An Autobiography
      • Slugs Mating
      • American Mystic
      • The Book of Revelation
      • Home
      • (more)
    • from The Book of Fools >
      • [First Taxi]
      • [Friend]
    • New Poems >
      • Postcards from Babel
      • Poem in Search of an Ending
      • Animation
  • Books
    • Nude Descending an Empire
    • Body of the World
    • The Book of Fools: An Essay in Memoir and Verse
  • About
    • Bio
    • Mailing List
  • Contact