My swollen body floats
in this shallow pond.
Fish with teeth
sharp as my father's
nibble at my feet.
My feet belong to the fish
living under the moon.
It is the moon who mirrors
the face of my mother.
She sits on a rock. She laments.
"We must be like fish.
We must swim upstream."
Her tired arm tugs at the black net
twisted between my thighs
until threads break and water
pulls the graceful body
of my daughter away from me.
Upstream she swims,
her young breasts float
like soft white lilies.
Her small pink mouth
opens and closes
like the mouth of a fish.
PIECES OF OUR LIVES
In a room of shattered glass
Mother is at my left.
What has she given?
My daughter is at my right.
Mother at my left,
a butterfly quivering.
My daughter at my right,
a chrysalis hanging.
Is it a butterfly quivering
in front, behind, around,
or a chrysalis hanging?
Is it my mother or me?
In front, behind, around,
the three of us linked.
Is it my mother or me
wearing my daughter's face?
The three of us linked
in a room of shattered glass
I wear my daughter's face,
the face my mother has given me.
BIRTH RITUAL
With bare heads and feet.
The grandmothers come again.
Grandmother West rolls my egg in red clay.
It stiffen, then cracks
spilling the smallest seed.
Grandmother North powders my body white
Rubs gently, the round parts
eyes, mouth, belly.
Grandmother East passes through my dreams.
She says, "Wear yellow when you are sad.
It is the color of the sun."
Grandmother South wears a black robe,
Carries seven sharp knives in her pockets.
She frightens me.
Clasping hands, they begin their chant.
The drum beats, sacred flames rise
Subside rise subside