You may be produced by me
or you may be me. I ask:
did you make it out?
We raise brows to old-fashioned lovemaking,
to someone’s flesh (the secret kind),
and to another’s (brutally shaven).
There’s a brief acknowledgment
when two fleshy bodies
reveal themselves to each other:
We are here and breathing, are you?
All of the women on my mother’s side
have dark nipples. It’s daunting
how some have neat little flower petals
that grow timidly in the darkness.
Body lost to the void: how do you feel?
that we all have pornstar pussies now,
that nothing ever touches
anything blooming,
that we are overpopulated
and consequently all standing
a little closer together? If you make it out,
remember the promises
and milk it took to cultivate you.
That lousy caregiver planning.
I have always wondered
at what point are you certain
you want a child.
When you give up? Or in? To the yearning
and the touch, so preapocalyptic.
If you make it out, remember
to make time.
Remember that eventually, every lover
will grey in the flesh
and you won't know
which thoughts are your own.
Where were your hands?
Who moves your hands? When you rest
your body grieves
the loss of your tender,
birthed brain. Continuously,
until you learn that you want it back.
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Daisy Kulina grew up in the Bitterroot Valley just outside of Missoula, Montana. She now studies in Vermont at Middlebury College and is working towards a bachelor's degree in Creative Writing and Gender, Sexuality, and Feminist Studies. You can find more of her work in Lily Poetry Review, The Basilisk Tree, and The Accendo Review. When she is not writing, Daisy is probably talking to her chickens or napping by the river.
