She lays herself bare
for us
her children.

We use her
as our playground.

Here we gather
we the outsiders
here we belong
in the pardoning lap
of our mother.

Her multiple warm wombs
welcome us in
pulsating with rhythms and beats.

We shed sweat in spaces
that drip condensation.

We hope to be reborn
through nights to mornings
that dawn and spread light
over her awnings
like encompassing arms
marked with pigeon track marks
protecting our place
in this world that would judge us
for our wide eyes
grinding mouths
gyrating hips. 

Here the new outsiders
travel in through her arteries
to stare at us.

But this is our mother
so we spill out into her streets
and seek to retreat
from their violent gazes
and the sun's heat.

We turn our backs on her
we her children
so that she might rest
until night breathes
life back into her
and we return. 

View this poem on The Disappearing »