by Erika Dahl Price
I thought I was alone
when I stretched my arms out wide,
fingertips spread like the sun,
and inhaled,
surprised at my breadth.
And when I paused to bend
at my knees and my navel and my neck
to pray, I didn’t feel Him tracing
the reverent height of my form.
But He must have lingered,
a moment to weigh the clay in His palm⸺
a fleshy ounce or two⸺
smoothing its cracks with His thumb,
whispering words into its fold,
breathing life through its curves,
nestling His work into the corner
of my womb pausing, again,
pleased at how the weight had changed
my depth.
