Standing with my daughter beneath the full sap moon, I sensed some primal reconnection.

// areta ekarafi (uterus) // osde8info (moon)

“Mommy, your bubbies look sad,” Ava says brightly one morning as I’m toweling dry from the shower.

“Sad?” I ask.

“Yes. They’re droopy… sad,” she explains, making a little frowny face.

“Yeah, Mommy, your bubbies are soggy, like fried eggs!” Carmen pipes up.

I stare at my daughters, who are lounging naked in my bed — aged 5 and 7 — waiting for me to toss them their clothes so they can get dressed under the covers. All the perkiness that once uplifted my youthful breasts now inhabits these two beings. …

The conversations come when you’re least expecting them: driving home from soccer practice, or brushing teeth together after a rare mother-daughter dinner out, still a little giddy from the pineapple margarita.

The girls had stood side by side at the wishing well in the trattoria courtyard, C. in her red trapeze dress and A. in the hand-me-down, rosebud pinafore she adores, its white cotton worn thin as an old sheet. I finished my cocktail and watched them cast their pennies into the fountain. Tim was up north for a week; we were a trio of rampant female energy.

What were…

Diana Whitney

Poet. Editor. Feminist activist. Next project: You Don’t Have to Be Everything (forthcoming from Workman in 2021).

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