Poet of the Week: Teri Cross Davis
Haint
no amount of dilation and suction
hemorrhaging and fever
could’ve erased you or
the pulp of your carved initials
made with the solid grasp
of a still forming hand
science tells me
you are still whispering
inside my bones
that years from now
cut me to the marrow
and microscopes will read
the rings of your insistent story
no matter the inconvenient
coupling of timing and desire
even now when the bloody show
disappoints our sharpening hunger
do you still cling or are you willing
to let another call my womb
home?