We’re growing something,
the women I know and I.
Some of them are growing humans inside of them,
with small fingers and smaller breaths.
The woman enveloping the growing bump and sharing touch and whispers over the future.
Some are growing tired,
their shoes too tight, their hands fisted in the shirt of another douchebag who thought he could fill her negative space.
As if every inch surrounding her must be taken, so she can’t lift her arms, she can’t push away.
A woman is growing a garden in her kitchen, filling her morning coffee with the smell of soil and hope and sunshine.
And maybe she drinks in the middle of the night, stumbling down the stairs and plunging her hands into a pot of soil asking for the earth to ground her and give her reason, give her something.
A girl just finding her feet is growing a back bone, hissing under her breath at every opportunity because the pressure that is building in her hands in getting too much.
Someone told her this feeling is right and now she sees the look in their eyes is not condescending,
but rather the look of someone looking at a wild animal in a trap, seconds from springing free.
Some of us are growing fond, we’re growing older, we’re growing up and we’re growing together;
wines of arms held high and lips open wide entangling and together we can reach up over the wall.
We’re growing, the women I know and I.
Restless and hungry for what we want.