By Raquel Reyes-Lopez

These arms are roots
tangling at the fingers,
stuck carrying
the ghost weight
of two babies

my body couldn’t
birth. Their names
carved on the bark
of my womb,
Motherhood seems
like sacrificial soil.

How much more blood
do I need to throw in
to finally be fertile?

Previously published in Spectrum: An Anthology of Southern California Poets

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