I’d buried my womb; I think I am ready to find it

How old was I when I buried my womb?

How old were you when you started digging?

I don’t remember,
but I’m older now–I’ve been torn about looking
for the unmarked grave where I hid it.

Why now must the lost be re-found?
Why return to this clearing of trees?

I know why, though I’d rather not say.
I’m back for good reason, I promise; it’s simply complex to relay.
A spark, you might call it–
a gracious reminder ice melts and grass grows when some light and heat stumble upon them.


I scour for slumbering patches of green and debris
beneath a thick covering of white shrouding most other things,
amassing atop soil frozen and pregnant
with my younger longings run cold.

I’ll set up camp here for months if I need to,
however long it may take for this numbness to fade.
May my will last!
May the spark fanned to flame keep.
I pray I can’t help but remember that light and its heat.


How old was I when I buried my womb?
How old was I when I started digging?

Those details I can’t recall precisely,
but I’m older now, and I’m torn about hiding
from myself,
from once simpler desires,
from the uncertain future I’ll bear should I claim them:

A future of love or of longing, of both or of neither.

Undisclosed. Undecided. Undiscovered.



Copyright © 2021 A.M. Wilsonne

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