A poem by Audrey Gidman
I step into my body as though
I am a temple making holy
the dirt. Here I crack myself
open like an eggshell – a pale
blue thing coming apart now
in unfolded bloom.
I wash my face. I will go home but not
in the same shoes, not
with the same shoulders.
I pull on my clothes. I am learning
the belly of the water in my knees,
that mother tongue drum in my spine
and when it settles
so too does the roof
of my mother’s house—I am here
cooking breakfast over the stove, unraveling
the bone quilt
my grandmothers sang until their fingers
bent into wind—
these knees are for prayer: the river
remembers itself in my hands.
Copyright © 2016 Audrey Gidman. All rights reserved.