As his body startles awake and heaves and shakes,
Digesting loss.
I am she whose cunt bleeds on its own terms,
Onto rags stained brown from past expulsions
The cycle, self-determinant, untainted by hormones meant to trick my womb
Into belief of pregnancy.
I am she who has fearlessly walked amongst the yowls of howler monkeys in trees,
Tamed tarantulas,
I am she who has ridden in rusty canoes in the mangrove on a starlit night
Holding baby crocodiles,
Then sexing their parents in the humid light of the next day,
To help monitor their safety and population.
I am she who wields with equal comfort:
A machete
And a pen.
I am she who can entrance you
With swiveling hips
And code-switching, honey-dripping,
Sing-song.
I am she who will feed you and feed you and feed you
And pour you wine
And steaming cups of tea
Trained by a long lineage of Persian mothers
Who show love through nourishment.
I am she who feels most comfortable
When you are nestled in under her right armpit
(Because that way, I know for sure I am protecting you.)
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