do you still part
the soft belly of a pomegranate
with the tip
of your fingernails?
does sand salt
the soles of your shoes
though you’ve never seen
the shore? sometimes, i want to say
we were once daughters too:
wide-hipped in our cotton
skirts, tumbling
down the river
with grass-bit ankles.
when i say girlhood was not yours
and yours alone, when i cry
child, you believe what you feel
is all there is to living,
i pray for the rusted scent
of your blood-slicked forehead
to mine, i ask
when the time comes
for the bones i built
to make way
for another’s,
gaze upon her toes—bruise-soft
toes, coin-small toes—
and be born again.