Hip of desert, curve of pelvis,
a towering mountain, layers of land,
angled rock, river wide as I am long.
There are infinite ways to harm,
infinite ways to love, to care.
Tell me with your lips how lush
my lips are, how Valentine tulip,
how morning dew. Your hand rests
on the arc of my back. There are
so many things to say about the body
of a woman, things a woman isn’t even
allowed to say about her own body.
So many things. My body, first deified,
then demonized and defiled. Graffiti
on the wall of the men’s bathroom
talks about my tits and ass
and how many dicks are too small
for my pussy. The door with the stick
figure in a triangle dress opens
to scrawl that tells me to keep
my head up, girl, tells me I’m worth
something. On the map, where land
failed at being one with river, water
moved around earth that blocked it.
Water rushed over tender banks of flesh,
broken limbs, edges icing in plaits.
Water trapped between asphalt and sky.
I am trapped between asphalt and sky.
My body, eternal library of eggs, gifted
from grandmothers—ancient
and mythologized, this body birthed
from mother, birther of babies. Mother
to child, to animals, to Earth, to all.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 6.
Liza Wolff-Francis is the eighth Poet Laureate of Carrboro, North Carolina. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College and an MSW from Smith College School for Social Work. She is a feminist ecopoet and has taught creative writing workshops for over a decade. Her writing has been widely anthologized and has most recently appeared in The Bombay Literary Magazine, Walter Magazine, and Snapdragon. Her full-length book is 48 Hours down the Shore (Kelsay Books, 2024).
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