In my imagined barrenness,
I held my tummy in prayer and asked
God’s spirit for new creation in my womb.
To dismantle you as an imaginary being
and find created matter:
to never be compensated for prayer;
to just press my hands over and around my navel
praying for something new and soft.
A rock in my belly,
I throw myself on it,
activating my imagined matter as
an absolute-still thing
without otherwise possibility,
in debt to gravity and deeper waters,
frigid cold and descending.
Holding on to that sinking stomach feeling
praying, and asking all the wrong questions
of matter like:
“Why are you this way?”
“Why are you upset?”
“Where did you come from?”
"What are we?"