Poetry and Democracy: Part Three
Peggy Robles-Alvarado and Erica Dawson
Seven years I have/ mothered this nature into a woman./ The moon, her crevices, a tree/ the sharpness of her tough skin split,/ the river’s green—refluxing bile./ Eve said, I didn’t need a man to be/ my mother. Didn’t need his rib/God’s hand,/ to be made. I was already every sea,/ the month of Sundays. Tide. The singeing brand/ scarring the sky. Woman. The W./ Cassiopeia.
Seven years I have/ mothered this nature into a woman./ The moon, her crevices, a tree/ the sharpness of her tough skin split,/ the river’s green—refluxing bile./ Eve said, I didn’t need a man to be/ my mother. Didn’t need his rib/God’s hand,/ to be made. I was already every sea,/ the month of Sundays. Tide. The singeing brand/ scarring the sky. Woman. The W./ Cassiopeia.
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