Rachel Nix

WHAT HIPS ARE MEANT FOR

 

My sister wishes for a little girl to stand next to her son,
to have my eyes & her curiosity. Sometimes I want to see

how far my car can go before turning around all because
I miss someone or some thing. She says I have hips meant

for birthing, which I could take offense to if she were
anyone else. If I were anyone else, the idea of being

someone’s every morning might be everything. Nothing
might be what I’ll grow used to. My sister holds her belly,

her son inside, waiting for his life to begin; I look at maps,
wondering where I’d feel at home & if I’ll ever learn

my way around regrets. She worries about shelter & how
to keep my nephew safe; I spend too much time thinking

about tattoos & how they’ll keep me in my skin. My sister
is content planning her life for others; I become too distracted

trying to escape the boundaries I belong to. She knows
I have a name for a daughter & the eyes to watch her grow;

I cannot be sure I have a place for one.



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