Poem by Jeanette Geraci. Photo by Ira Joel Haber.

Somewhere, I am
tunneling out of my mother,
kissing my brother, James on the mouth,  
burrowing my face into the crook
of my mother's bare shoulder.
            (My eyes are
                        and have always been.)
I am climbing off a man,
radiant, trembling, sweetly or bitterly
[A woman's hips become everything
they touch.]
            (My veins are
                        tree bark, lightning rods, ocean water.)
Somewhere, my children have Matthew's smile.
Somewhere, I never said yes.
Somewhere, I kissed Robert instead.
Somewhere, my heart is pumping blood
through someone else's body.
Somewhere, my body is someone else's body,
no one else's body,
no body at all.
Somewhere, perhaps, I am smiling.
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