Rouge lips. Flush cheeks.
The red of a turnip pulled centuries ago.

From Earth-worn fingers, swollen breasts.
Buttermilk bellies born to withstand
traveling the waters of not-worthy
to the shores of desire.

Derry and Glasgow
Sweated and dug me into form.
I can see them through the film of my skin,
woolen skirts waving in the wind.

Worn hands grasping wooden ships of desire
for a dream felt in the root of their chest, for a land and cabin all their own.
Under warm blankets of eyelids, sacrificing what was for what could be.

Sea bound and star swept
in the Great Mother’s graces.
They arrived so that I might stand
at the bank with my basket and remember.