imperfect prose on thursdays: womanhood

the world was a womb, a vaccuous space and life, in the leg of field, in the arms of tree stretching high touching sky and everything pulsed

it’s a boy

i’d fallen asleep on the sheet while she’d met him through the screen and i’d woken to her showing me his curve of stomach, his long legs and his lips, pursing, chubby cheeks and even though i had wanted a girl, i wanted him more

“kashir jude” i’d whispered, the names which trent and i had sketched out on an evening in the mountains, and it was so

and as i drove home through the womb that is earth and blared the cd loud because i could, as the sky split blue skin i heard the song, the one about love, about a man wanting nothing but to look into his woman’s eyes and i remembered, lying on that living room floor, our fingers sailboats into moon-sky and we couldn’t get enough of each other and life was dates and kisses and resisting skin and

in spite of everything: meeting kashir and womb-world and everything good like aiden and other, i began to miss what had been, and womanhood wrapped around me: with all of its children, its man, its houses-made-home, and i even began to miss what hadn’t been, the wrinkled hands of time, husband and i cradled in rocking chairs, wrinkled bodies sending silent sailboats into moon

and i was all of woman, in this moment, my children being born and growing old, my husband being met and making love at eighty, my skin stretching tight around the world as it gave birth to us all…

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