Poetry By Greta Bellamacina
Tomorrow’s woman has seen war in heaven she is the blue of light before time draws she has loved all the women she has heard in a throat hood inhaling rain.
Above the stars that cannot be filmed stars that are not known as paradise known for their isolation,
biographers of pain too full of memory.
Tomorrow’s woman is the colour of night tomorrow’s woman is your child tomorrow’s woman is shelter she is sex the last shock against death, sex the last peace sex that forgets black and white.
She is the first to hold a bird in her hands and learn of foreign love and not melt at the idea of diff erence.
Tomorrow’s woman is too fat she bleeds because she knows what it is to feel a whole generation on her hips and still be seen as empty a dog a fiction a miracle danger an ocean of plastic a soft dangle vine nothing a war child,
face on a stand eyes too close together, mouth like a rental car feet crossed the oven is on.
Tomorrow’s woman is your father and his mother, and his mother, and his mother . . .
She is undammable a renaissance of marching women as strong as morning as fearless as water a school in the wind lighting.
Hands like stolen trees stuck up in the fog, a library card to Jerusalem only human in waves a courtyard of scarlet fire closed so far down into itself.
It’s hard to imagine what kind of God could believe the Dead Sea was female, it’s hard to imagine what kind of God could believe that you could float on your back like this not drowning.