By Destiny O. Birdsong
via the Poetry Foundation
the women, small and neat,
top each other like
slices of wonder bread.
when she and i
finally meet,
we knead each other—
fresh dough—
adjusting our
rehearsed finger-tread.
outside, magnolias
cup their sepals
like good hands.
inside, we spade
like leaves: tenderly,
and only at each other’s bidding.
when my sister
stopped speaking to me,
what she wanted
was for my body
to stop speaking.
now look: i fold what suits
me in the loaf of my thighs.
i am learning
how to call my
self, how to put my mouth
on whatever i like.
A Note from the Editor
Read Almallah's essay, "Arabic Was No Longer My Arabic," from the April 2022 "Exophony" issue of Poetry.
Source: Poetry (November 2023)
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