Eating the Afterbirth

Eating the Afterbirth

In celebration of Beats: A Naropan Periodical's April Issue on "Matrilineage," I offer a poem and a sentiment that will appear in the forthcoming issue. This upcoming issue out of Boulder, Colorado (in association with Tooth N Nail, a forthcoming anthology of womanhood) is said to be exploring a lineage of women with the sentiment:
"a woman's name is never her own. Names are subsumed, erased. Stories are never written. Who are you? Who is/was your mother? Who is/was your grandmother?" There is still time to submit to this issue, which is highly encouraged. Guidelines can be found at Email your contribution to:

"Eating the Afterbirth"

First, the mother takes a long time eating the afterbirth,
then I hear it’s the other way around…

But I guess balance always discovers a way to balance out, so we don’t look back, we don’t need to. We sift into freezing bursts with no destination except a sunlit highway heading north, say goodbye to the children we leave behind, the ones we’ll never meet, aching and phantom.

It’s okay, states above Florida are much warmer; peeking tulips permeate the tree lines—escapism by bumper-cars and coffee houses shaped from shacks: Chipped Robin Blue and mismatch vinyl chairs, how do you keep your shine?

Tilt-a-whirl mountainsides, geometric faces. You’ve never seen a tunnel carved into the earth, eyes dripping away sludge, until the peak—At the top: sweater weather, cigarette smoke drifts, angles soft enough to bring quartz from sky. At the bottom of this ridge we’re only in bathing suits, sun hiding above green palms, skin sliding against cool-hearted waterfalls–

Slide… Return to loam, rich with our fingers. Here, I’ll lay down the salt circle to keep us out of drought, while you lay down your palms to keep us from leaving.

Published by Kristiane Weeks-Rogers


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