Last night I dreamt of a woman
who birthed her knowledge with wide hips
and a womb that ovulated only in her country.
Nested in the juncture of her supple legs,
oiled from sweat and labor, were the twisted limbs of a Narra tree.
Where birds with flightless wings made of paper maché
lapped at their saltiness.
She smelled of soil and secrets that echoed
with the refrain of abandoned tongues,
Risen from a century's worth of harvest,
sinking deep into her lush folds that cried
even when they were open.
Especially when they were open.
But her body cradled the sound.
The roots too deep to hear them.
And in the late afternoon, I rose
from the daydream of my father’s province,
wondering how I had been born from his dirt
but planted far from the branches
that blossomed into fruits,
sweet as my Grandmother.