My Birth Season

I have become all fighting words.
My venting is violent, I scream, punch, barrel.
The days are hot with fire and I am sharp, acidic, acute.
bruised.
my bomb rolls, a perfect circle;
I push it with both hands, I stand with my hands on my hips,
I stand with my eyes and tongue.
There is no softness I won’t swallow.
A sadness, a stab wound
that watches your chest rising in the heat.

By Ama