Peach Seed Womb

We are not machines 

We are not blankets

We are not these sweaters meant to crinkle with age 

We are not exactly their matrix of support 

Our limbs do have a little rigidness to them 

A robustness not unlike that of waters deep 

Steeped too

So maybe we are grounds

To justice, to punish

A firmness in footing 

For what dregs do we stand our truth on 

But exiled all the same