At the creek we strip off our clothes and sink beneath it all. We hold each other's babies as we take turns to scream under the water. You can’t hear a god dam thing above the surface.

Grief worn on our shoulder tips. Devotion, our shared language.  Hearts audacious, exposed. The twine a tattered mess, the entrails of growth.

Torn.  

Now we are seasoned. There are many children here. Grown and speaking back in sharp tongues.  Many bodies birthed through us. Limbs akimbo, our bodies are a playground for our children/ our partners/ourselves. Every curve and scar a map for who we once were.  At the creek we mother together.  We mother each other.

Pressing our bodies hard up against this reality- we gave birth to self governing universes again and again- and here, hold them slippery in our hands.