Mary as Kin
by Jo Bear
Dyke mother, you know the sacrament of hands
worn from long work & gentle as the scabbard
of a blade. You chose emptiness in its first
sense: freedom from fear—womb as the warm welcome
of a butch’s palm where you curl brow to knee
with the ease of a child. You know the making
of families begins so long before desire.
Once, I told a lover I wanted to want
her. Or, perhaps, I wanted lust’s easy shape.
Some days, my leg was the leg of the moon &
I knew not what it made me. I needed her
as flight needs a bird. Language makes no yearning
but it sharpens the blade. I hold her with words
at my throat. I hold her with empty arms & think of you. 
First published in Grist