God is my Mother

She curls up against my abdomen
As though trying to get as close as she can
To the warmth of the womb
She was outcast from only days ago,
With the fervency of faith filled parishioners
Begging in unfathomable tongues
To return to the comfort of their god.
Perhaps god is merely our mothers.
Do men not spend their days
Searching for their way back into the womb?
Who but God holds claim to creation
Or may cast down death without consequence?
Even man is birthed from our name!
Could it be god was made in our image?
And if that is the case, should we women not
Treat our bodies as the holy temple
No longer allowing sinners to enter without due repentance.
What if we taught our daughters a new faith
Bless only the men who worship on their knees
Who lift hands up with offerings
Seeking humble favor of their holy queens?
Ah yes, women must be the deity.
While men have wasted generations
Rewriting the story of the male savior,
That we may forget it was woman alone who made him
Man had nothing to do with it.
Salvation was formed in our womb, birthed between our legs,
Fed at our breast, and offered by our hands.
Tonight hold your daughters close
Whisper these truths into their souls
And let us remind men that they may not enter heaven
Until they truly believe.

There is a heart in my tea

Not like the kind that drums bass beats in my broken bones when you kiss me.
Not like "Yes I will love you even when I pull down your pants to find the same undies you put on three days ago...and we haven't run the washer since Sunday."
Not like tomorrow is guaranteed
Like sunsets after long walks
Or sunrises after hot nights
Or tickle me angry then fight me like lovely.

Oh no, like paper cut out pretend
Like yes no or maybe
Like holding hands till the bell rings
Like three minutes of a slow dance
Like little wishing large
Like forever only lasts till you sip me dry.

Scribbled Conscience on Abortion Clinic Letterhead

I do not hate children.
The judgment lingering on some naysayer's breath
Dissipates as it reaches my ear,
Too full yet of sorrow, anguish
With each appointment I speak
Feathered whispers against frail skin.
She loves you, she loves you not
Let the debate not weigh upon your tiny heart.
You may not live long enough for cuddles and kisses,
Sonnets and vows,
The last hands, the only hands
To ever hold you will be mine
But dear child know I cradle you
In the nook of my heartbeat
Even as you lose yours.
For if your lungs had ever begun to breathe
They would only be filled with the distress of
Past regrets, failed promises, empty dreams
A heaviness too great to place on infants' shoulders.
I do not hate children.
Though the Pharisees may cast me down
The question begs
Do they not deserve heaven without enduring hell first?
So gently I will perform the task
Condemning myself with each sterile scrape
Of a tool made to end life
Against a body begging not to make life
As I solemnly hold in my hands life...
God might say I am saving life.
Or maybe not.
But I pray we change the world into one worthy of life
Before forcing one to exist here.