After Tarfia Faizullah’s Hidden Registers
She winces at taboo, the same way
she looks at empty ultrasounds.
The ache
inside the hollowed curve of her
womb, she imagines carrying color
to fill
translucent dreams. Her hand paints
spells onto her stomach, she wants
to believe again. That split
a girl finds between her legs,
the wonder
it first captured, she wants newborn pink
on her cheeks and unmoving lips.
The pout her ******* makes,
rises in swells under the moon,
to feel
that luminous glow. She holds
out, the palms of her hands,
for alms. Comets ricochet into her,
until her breath slows to sleep. She is still,
the woman
inside her is quiet, laying in wait.
They dream of seeds and sunrises.
A. T. Bockholdt
This is from a portfolio created throughout a poetry workshop at CU Denver
