
Issue 3, March 2009 We Don't Know and They
Won't Tell Us | previous
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Ovule
Shira Dentz
A sunflower seed
hulled,
a tear
pinioned between two fingers;
the shade of barked tree,
bone.
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You have a tip like the citron
pointed during Succoth to the four directions:
two poles, sunrise, and sunset.
A tip like a nipple, bird beak, tooth,
but I know it’s your navel,
and where an umbilical root might have rested
along the center of your underbelly
is now a crook;
if you were a boat,
passengers would sit in this scar.
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