
My knees are made of rivers.
Not my own, but I do not know it,
Private landings synchronizing
limb to limb.
My womb is spirit-
My womb is spirit.
A window onto its own
dawdling stride in rhyme
through war zones.
Rivers bending backward
but I do not know it,
Shallow, unheard, rushing- faster
I tell her to slow down; she does not hear the groundbreaking.
Her windows are made of oolong feet,
And she must,
Walk to zion.
Poetry Krissy Mosley
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