Far below, mottled purple fingers of skunk cabbage
stab at me through frozen mud.
My sap begins to run
sluggish and slow, restless and silently roaring while the air unfolds.
This is not like birth,
not a sharp simple pain.
This is an excavation,
tedious and frustrating,
a dipping in and out like summer pond feet dangling from the end of a dock.
Persephone, how do you manage to climb all those stairs?
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