Over a low soft hill
is a black forest.
Weave your way
through the dark tangles
to the forest’s heart.
There springs a river of blood
and at its mouth, a scar,
sewn for a second time.
Follow that thread to this story, to a mother’s birth story.
In my dreams, I have never given birth.
I yearn for you to touch me, to
insert something in me, as if
for the first time.
In my dreams, I am a woman. But not
the kind of woman I am now.
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