Split

I am a woman and I speak.
I am a woman with lines on her face and I speak.
I am a woman with lines on her face and scars on her belly and I speak
with the voice of a mother
I said, a mother

twice split
once by a scalpel
once by the violence of a baby’s head

a woman who writes and plays guitar with hands scarred
      and aged from cleaning up shit

a woman who called herself ‘expecting’
but didn’t expect to be split,
body and soul,
half the precious young personality blasted away

I speak with the voice of a woman who knows what it means
      to have her choices removed
to be so tired she can barely walk
and keep walking
to be so sick she can barely speak
and keep
singing

I speak with the voice of a woman who knows how to
      love unconditionally

and who is ready to die when it is necessary.

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p class=”pubcredit”>(First published in Cottonmouth)