How W(e)omen Are Born
they say we are born,
a finite fistful of eggs,
and what about
the shells?
i am all shell, tender and crooked,
cracks tracing
the lifelines lived in the palm
of your hand, and
fingers splayed, branching
little dirt roads
going neither
here,
nor there.
green-skinned, i grow
both wishing i were
pink,
you take,
but i am seedless.
perhaps if planted
underwater
the pit
would take root,
to bloom, and we could
kiss, again,
like seventeen,
like endless.
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© 2019 Monica Lewis