hands in the water, blood in the cut

starch in the collar, mud on the boot

you want it softer, you want it mute

somebody’s daughter, somebody’s root

i am the labour, i am the spine

carrying weight that was never mine

you drink the honey, i feel the sting

still i will sing, still i will sing

I stitch the dawn with bleeding thumbs,

sweat pearls on bruised collarbones—

your breakfast, your glory, your quiet.

You wear my hours like a sovereign’s cloak,

call it love while the clock gnaws my spine.

I birth the milk, the mercy, the mirage;

you sip, you sign, you sleep.

My rage is a red thread in the dishwater,

a witch-song rising, raw, unrehearsed:

every kiss you count, I carve back in bone.

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—

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