Proof

I wanna prove it to you I resolve With my hands I take my two palms And when I scoop out my chest I pull out handful after bloody handful Of tissue dedicated to you. I stumble like a belly-wounded soldier from that day Bits spilling from my middle I take the bloody handfuls I pass them back and forth, I press them in my palms I shape them into loaves, sprinkle them with straw I make bricks out of my insides and leave them out to dry. I put the bricks in a river. You make soft curves and clear mountains When you lope down stream And after many years, these sharp edged stones are smooth, so small. I take the stones – one in each hand I carry them to the crest of a tall hill. I press them into the face of a great clay idol They become its eyes, new-filled holes The face of a man Unachievable This is how woman creates her god. Meanwhile I will attempt to refill my now empty chest With sand and straw and tiny green leaves I will thrust in my arms up to my elbows Arranging my insides, digging in my cavity I will place each leaf, I will split straws I will sit down on the dirt floor and use my arms like shovels I will keep myself whole and full with the things I gather When dirt trickles from my wound I will gather more Until There is a honeycomb hung from my shoulder blade A bird’s nest in my breastbone Ants tunneling through the bark stacked in my belly Mossy toads settle in the earth under each rib. With life burrowing within me I will live. One day I will come across a great clay idol on the crest of a tall hill. I will look it in the eyes, I will see what used to belong to me I will miss you and the warm tissue The blood that used to beat in my veins And I will cry And want you inside me I will put my hand to where my heart once was It will come away with a handful of sweet soil And sitting on my palm Two tiny toads Their blunt noses nestled in each other’s folds Sleeping. I will stand on that hilltop and I will look you in the eyes I will cradle the two tiny creatures in my palm And I will stop and feel the rest of what makes me: My workerbees returning home in great golden clouds Alighting on my shoulders to climb inside. My ants gathering in tiny cavern ballrooms They stay up late to dance in my belly. A bird song trilling from my breast bone. Brilliant A mother to her chicks. And I will need you no more.