This much must be mine,
my sister says. These eyes
must correspond with memories
I’ve known them to inform.
This heart must stoke the furnace
beneath the loves that I hold dear
and only those.
This much must be mine,
I apologize, to the child
I fathom rather than conceive.
For growth to be a victory,
every cell I feed must be my own.
I partner myself, create myself
within my womb, supposedly unused,
since, a child too, I still refuse to share.
I, like my sister, take my body back
and never ask forgiveness.
Bless us both, who — biting our lips,
lay claim to our whole selves.
If I had more, I think I’d give it
freely. I’d let you live in me,
maybe, if I’d fought tooth and nail
for somewhere else to live.
