When I came down, 
I took out 
A sketchbook 
Curling towards heaven from 
Being kept too close to the rains, 
And carved into it with 
The feather I received 
For initiation.

When I was 
Banished from paradise,

I folded my cloaks back into 
Two bottle-green suitcases.

I was afforded the robes
But denied shampoo.

So I set sail, 
Through fertilized farmlands,
And now I don’t have an address,

And probably won’t for many years.

The sketchbook curls now towards a single 
Incandescent ovary and, 
Towards a shard of a stomach 
Gone before our own.

How long until women are free to name

Their daughters after us again?

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