History says that a woman is a womb
and nothing else. History does not want to talk
about a woman’s fist, her
we cannot exist outside our blue speckled oven mitts,
our smile pretty for me baby, our needles, hems, pleats,
this is all we can carry.
There are mountains in me, made of it
A brittle bone,
a man wants to cut me down.
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/