If my womb could wander she wouldn’t take a map
would have no sense of the weather
would find herself in the next town over blushing &
asking for directions.
Sitting at the diner counter, she would refuse pie, confess
she likes to feel empty, even though it makes her restless.
I’m tired of tracking her down. I’m tired.
My womb refuses to listen.
She cramps. She cries. She wrestles my insides next to the heart of the matter:
I come from a long line of women in distress. Often banished
to the seaside to rest my mind. Look, maybe it’s easier
to let her go unsupervised.
We are each a vessel without purpose. I have no advice to offer her.
Let her thumb a ride to the shore. Let her ride the Gravitron, tackle
the ocean. Hawk cotton candy on the boardwalk.
Soon enough she will find how exhausting it is. Limb-laden with un-
ease, sunburned & shaken
she will find her way back to me, no smelling salts
needed. All bark, no bite
she’ll nestle in tight & we’ll finally, finally get some sleep.
Rebecca Connors (she/her) is the author of the chapbook, Split Map (Minerva Rising Press, 2019). Her poems can be found in DIALOGIST, Glass Poetry Journal, and Tinderbox Poetry Journal, among others. She has her MFA from Solstice at Pine Manor College and lives with her family in Boston. Follow her on Twitter @aprilist or visit her site at aprilist.com.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.