People are always saying Good and you?
& I say it too me & other women
with synapses going up like stars
these days it’s red & rusted: my thin-making
work with kettlebells, crumpled knuckles,
watery blood in my menstrual cup.
Check horoscopes, look for signs.
I don’t even bother kidding anymore.
Or I do. I kid so long &
so loud that Cassiopeia laughs
from above. Talking shit
as a birthright horizontal violence
from the matriline &
someone’s pokey breasts in a boyfriend’s
t-shirt & the silicones we rub
into our faces & the glass ceiling
that was supposed to be a sunburst
through a grey November day
with you crying & me crying
in the inner knowledge that
we could catch a piece of the shatter
& put it on a pendant
for all of us, forever.
I thought we were lucky now, in liberation—
now we believe we can do hard things with our bodies, too
the things that men can do: run a marathon
or climb a mountain
still, I always knew I could carry temples
in my body, create silk
from my cells.
Take up space, you say, bite back,
& all the parts of me agree
including the fertile fluid
sloshing from my cervix
the adamantine muscle of the womb
the gorgeous yellowed pelvic bones
—my ancestors rotting their magic
where I walk