Poetry to my Uterus

Blessed be the rounded breasts
That suckled men at womyn at my chest
Blessed be the rounded thighs
Which stand me up when I fall
Blessed be the belly- round because I eat
Which displays my hunger, and my willingness to consume
And to be filled.
Blessed be the trail my lover marks with her teeth.
From the bottom of my right arch
Back to the dip of my knee, then into the valley between my thighs
Where my lover shows me how good it is
--to be appreciated.
Blessed be the cunt that bleeds with the pull of the moon,
Blessed be the womb, like wombs before mine,
and wombs before my mother’s womb and wombs before her’s
That panged, ached and burned
To remind us of their presence
As we are taught so early to forget them.
Blessed be the blood that flows from between my rounded thighs
At the most inconvenient days
Which leaves me incapitated, bent over double
From the heaving that follows pain
From the pain that comes from generations of being labeled
--filthy, dirty, unclean, untouchable.
And so, through the pain, I bless my womb
Which bleeds fertile tissue from the places
--secret, dirty, hidden, down-there’s
To remind me that I am womyn.
And as womyn, I have sisters who bleed as well
Who bleed dirty blood which if not bleed,
Brings forth dirty babies from womyn,
Labeled unclean or unworthy.