Beloved and Me: Response to T. Morrison.

oh Lord girl
he tells her, looking through the curvilinear lines
her holes and gaps, the worms in the rotten, wet wood.
The pan smokes on the stove and he says

Oh Lord

she eats what she can,
lives when she can
but has never loved since she was stolen away,
since her milk and honey was taken from her and all but
dried up in her veins

but without burden, curved breasts are held
one piece of the fabric of her skin
lifts them to the light
she lets up already, breathes.
When their twined holistic hands unite her to her body
again.

He has a way of making the women cry into quilts

of making her cry the way
he loves, white-knuckled and cradling her
the way her mother should have
the way her father should have
the way she tries to for herself
now.