History says that a woman is a womb

and nothing else. History does not want to talk
about a woman’s fist, her
spit.

History says

we cannot exist outside our blue speckled oven mitts,
our smile pretty for me baby, our needles, hems, pleats,
our pain:
this is all we can carry.
There are mountains in me, made of it
A brittle bone,
a tree,

a man wants to cut me down.

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Paige Chaplin is a writer/musician/fleetwood mac nerd
and also she’s from the moon or something.
Listen to her music at https://paigechaplin.bandcamp.com/