Wombs Bloom
Justin Long-Moton
Woman’s lyric is paralyzing—headlights to deer. A soft
gospel lining the throat: to love monotone with stain
glass inflections, at times irritating—poison ivy vines
wrapped around retinas gouged out blind, yet soothing,
how lilac makes the skin prayer or doves dipping
their wings in chamomile to help the sky sleep.
I hear their songs, each sung on a different chord
due to circumstance. Contraction to ear can be likened
to sunlight dripping into the slightly perched lips
of a rose swelling.
For the single mother, one paycheck split between
three mouths, blue moons bulging in your teeth
attempting to eat the night out of a home. You are
a synonym for strength. Let no man forsake the waters
of his initial baptism. Breastfeed your son’s soil, so from
birth they possess the concept of growth. Tuck them
tight under their flowerbeds, whisper into their leaves
You will be more than your fathers.
For the woman, shades and an anchored smile, tell him
no more! (Hammers can dislocate the leg of a man
faster than they can nail the leg of a table.)
For the bastard daughter, remember one missing rib
doesn’t make you any less of woman.
For mother, I forgive you. You learned to love me in 12
steps but you learned nonetheless.
For the womb, life sprouts in all seasons. Cherish the
hands willing to cultivate and remain
for the blooming—
there are few.
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