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Alina Kalontarov
A Woman is a Wound
She opens her sovereign heart
to the machete of the world
closes her eyes
already somewhere else
bending a field of wheat
to the wind
scanning for collapse
of sturdy things
wings folded in her lap
wings like prayer-
steepled hands.
In her softest parts
she is rosy cheeks
and bone meal
feeding all the rivers
that cut through the earth
bleeding auburn hunger
down her legs
running toward any joy
that will have her
stumbling upon it
like she didn’t know
it was there
like it wasn’t always
digging its chafed finger
into the gash and asking
to be healed.