If we are dust,
Where are our stories?
Do they live in the hips of the women,
who birthed us?
Or in our own bellies,
Do they live in grass,
not green but blue and dewy, a flesh-ripe plum
that's burst and scoured out the other side of us?
How dare we?
Think that if we question we'll receive an answer back
how dare we?
Come to see ourselves as all moon?