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.