in the sleepless, restless nights
I know there are poems
waiting to be born

once and not yet spoken by the women with whom I share blood

there are stories I want to remember 
of my own bones
grandmother’s milk
her mother’s skin  

and the water of thewoman before
they are 

asking me to remember 

I am holding them somewhere 

my great grandmothers
skeleton is my own

this skin
a borrowed bag
a stream of veins
all leading to me

fingers catching a current
of the forgotten and remembered
amongst that remarkable
and regrettable

women's faces made from
constellations of the night
names riding a warm breeze 
somewhere I remember 

did you dream of me
in all my triumph and trauma
had you contemplated all the
arranged between your thighs

I read from my palm
an ancestral text
its translation on my skin
words tucked in pores
while the whole world
reads me

I am only a poem


your fantasy 

wild, birthed and realized
a caged bird
conjuring an ancient song

an archaic hymn
my great grandmother’s voice
echoes vibrates against chords

the faint scent of my grandmother
sits at the nape of my neck
marking of a memory
flesh that recalls and awakens

this is an exercise  
to remember the secret language
hidden and buried between my ribs
and recall
words etched in cursive across
resembling bone
and shared marrow

a way back
to the
and the poems

Shefon TaylorComment