I am a walking womb.

Four pairs of tickling hands,
Folding into a stitch.

Clumsy eyes,
Stumbling gaits,
And all everyone wants is some coffee.

Lying on all fours,
Swollen breasts,
And floating calves,
I am a walking womb.

The lonely navel joins the nipple.
The silence beckons the butcher.

Round and round,
We go.
Black and white skin gathering every so slightly at my ribs,
Lipstick in my underwear,
Earthquakes on my pelvic floor,
I am a walking womb.

Heather blue socks and peeled oranges,
The midwife waits a little longer.

My hair has since grown fickle,
The mirror, swollen.
Oil between the toes,
Gold around the ankles,
The first wash hisses…

How does one learn to breathe?

I’ve grown accustomed to sleeping naked,
At war with reason,
My body has become a map,
Friction between the poles,
I am a walking womb.

At the cusp of night,
My attention draws towards the stars beneath,
Gooey and white,
Astrocyte-like.

I give them names of their own:
Hazel, Casey, and Simon,
Struggling to find just one.

Gendered splotches,
Virgin witches,
I am a walking womb.

I awaken with braids,
Tangled at the tip.
Hysteria calls my name,
Asking me…

Who made us mothers?

Footnote:
The pelvic floor hiatus represents the passage by which the fetus is vaginally delivered during the birthing process.1 The term is also associated with a temporary cessation in continuity.

1 Yang JM, Huang WC. Significance of Pelvic Floor Hiatus in Female Pelvic Organ Prolapse. J Med Ultrasound. 2025 May 23;33(2):102-107. doi: 10.4103/jmu.JMU-D-25-00012. PMID: 40521318; PMCID: PMC12161704.