When some religious folks tell me—
a pregnant woman—
that I was created for man,
from man,
as a cure for his loneliness,
I ask them what the author’s gender is
of their sacred texts.
What does a man know
about Genesis?
Of how it feels to
create human from scratch,
right under their ribs,
to push creation
from the inside out
into “let there be light”?
Does God have
morning sickness
when she has a new idea?
Was she ashamed of stretch marks?
Does she cramp up
when it’s time to manifest
something brand new
into existence?
Only God and mother
know how it feels to grow another
from the inside out,
of the violence in creation,
the grace it takes
to sacrifice our body
like the slaughtering of a lamb.
Do not tell me
I was made from man’s rib
when my own ribs are expanding
to make mankind.

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