you can’t be

you died giving birth

legs gaping

mouth heaving out


you stained my forehead

with the yolk of an egg

meant for curanderos

to interpret

your throat as long

as two hands encircling

a belly tearing out

her burden

your lovers wore felt

holding their hats in nicotine fingers

instead of joining you

theirs was the watchful crow

blue in lamplight

touch the fleeing blood

growing cold on lynx tiles

she was your lover

all of you shared her

grief and easement

like a tenancy of trombones

blowing cold you are

unable in your tarnish

to re-deliver her

scolded by her nature she is

bound by insemination

pushing against her wet thighs

a different kind of urge

get it out get it out get it out

her eyes inherit the cataracts of her

blind ancestors

you rue the days you turned her like a book

leafing through her cavities

planting your frustration in her deep recess

not thinking for a future

where blood makes palm prints

on her hot cheeks and as she lifts in agony

you recall her climax and breathe in

the stale dusk of death

ushering life on the tail end of

unwanted consequence

here is your daughter

she stands naked and boneless

sucking your inability to

grow dignified and wise

you fidget in your plastic seat

as her hands grip your weakness by the stem

enveloping provocation as

men will reach for their reflection

one last time

smoke to the last

their comfortable curse

feet reddened by women

who die beneath


52 thoughts on “Re-deliver

      1. I’m very glad you liked it, I tried hard to convey a whole story and experience and it’s so heartening to feel it touched someone or they enjoyed reading it, that’s all I ever want. Thank you so much my friend, for your support and encouragement, it means a great deal to me. You ROCK!

        Liked by 1 person

  1. What’s more powerful than words? You sis…captivating and gripping.

    These lines had me:

    where blood makes palm prints

    on her hot cheeks and as she lifts in agony

    you recall her climax and breathe in

    the stale dusk of death

    Death, an old friend I sometimes miss. You left me thinking of how us humans always need to remind ourselves everyday that death is something of a positive way of seeing things. Maybe not all the time…

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Heart touching and sad. I once met an elderly gentleman in the waiting room when my first daughter was being born. He was there for the birth of a grand daughter. He was holding a worn photo of his wife. He leaned over and handed it to me.” That is my wife…she was so beautiful, I loved her to death”. And the cycle of birth and death continue.

    Liked by 3 people

  3. Powerful indeed, it disturbs the mind to think about and bare witness to such horrendous treatment in our world, as well it should. You give voice to those that I’m sure have felt voiceless in your magnificently penned offerings my friend ღ

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Damn. This is an incredibly visceral and powerful piece, Candice. I’m almost at a loss for words… You have such a dynamic gift for metaphor. If only the ~men~ of this world could truly grasp the magnitude and scope of this issue, but, perhaps many do, and that is why the project and lash out at any woman they’re lucky enough to ever share company with. My heart goes out to all women. You’re an amazing writer and human being.


    1. It is my humble belief that some men totally get it, I have met some incredible men, but for each one, there is a blind one. The same is true of women but maybe for different reasons. I would guess it is a hate of other women as ‘perceived competition’ which is so wrong-headed because if women stood together and the men who support them, stood with them, there would be an end to inequality and exploitation world-wide.


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