Sweat like iron, bloom like rust,
I stitch the dawn into my bust—
needle bites, the kettle screams,
his dreams drip honey, mine drip steam.
Count the ribs through cotton worn,
each hour a child I’ve never borne.
I bake the bread, I bite the stone,
grind my song between his throne.
My tongue is raw from lullabies
that rock the cradle, colonize—
but listen close, the cacophony:
every clapback sets me free.